The silence in the kitchen was thick enough to choke on, broken only by the thwack of Frankie’s knife against the cutting board. He was making school lunches for Leo, the seven year old he’d stepped up to raise without a second thought, despite not having a drop of shared blood. That was the thing about Frankie he was a "fixer" by nature, a man who flew helicopters into war zones and now spent his mornings cutting crusts off sandwiches.

You leaned against the doorframe, nursing a lukewarm coffee and watching him. You had just graduated college with a degree gathering dust, and currently stuck in the guest room of a house that felt less like home and more like a waiting room. Frankie didn't look up. He didn't have to. He probably smelled the resentment coming off you in waves.

"You’re up late," he muttered, his voice gravelly and exhausted. "There’s eggs left in the pan if they aren't cold yet."

"I'm not hungry," you snapped, the default setting for every interaction you’d had with him since moving back a month ago. You barely knew the guy, but you knew your mom, and you knew her patterns.

Frankie finally paused, his hand resting on a pile of ham. He looked at you then, really looked at you, with those dark, perceptive eyes that seemed to see right through you. He looked like shit. There were deep bags under his eyes and his shoulders, usually military straight, were slumped.

"Look, I know you think I'm just the latest guy in the rotation," he said, his tone surprisingly level. "And I know we don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on... well, anything. But help me out here. Is she even coming home for dinner tonight?"

You felt a sharp jab of pity you didn't want to acknowledge. You’d heard them screaming last night, well, your mom screaming, and Frankie just taking it, trying to deescalate like he was negotiating a hostage situation.

"She has a shift at the hospital," you lied. It was a shitty lie. You both knew she was off on Tuesdays.

Frankie’s jaw tightened. He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out a small, plastic rectangle. He slid it across the granite island toward you. It was a key card for the Marriott downtown, the logo faded but unmistakable.

"Found it in the laundry," he said quietly. "In her work jeans. She told me she spent the night in the on-call room because of the storm."

You stared at the card. You wanted to tell him to fuck off, to mind his business, to realize that this was just what she did when she got bored. She’d done it to your dad, and she’d done it to Leo’s dad. Now she was doing it to the guy who stayed up late doing 2nd-grade math homework and checking the perimeter of the house like he was still in the jungle.

"What do you want me to say, Frankie?" you asked, your voice dropping the defensive edge for the first time. "You want me to tell you she’s different this time? You’ve seen the way she looks at you lately."

Frankie let out a short, bitter breath that was almost a laugh.

"I’m a pilot. I know when I’m losing altitude. I just thought..." He trailed off, looking over at Leo’s backpack sitting by the door. "I thought if I worked hard enough at the ground stuff, the rest would stay level."

"She’s a runner," you said, blunt and cruel because it was the only truth you had. "The second things get real or 'boring,' she’s gone. You’re just the one holding the bag this time."

Frankie slammed the knife down, not in a way that felt dangerous to you, but in a way that radiated pure, concentrated frustration.

"I love her," he hissed. "I moved my entire life for this family. For her, for Leo... for you, even if you hate my guts."

"I don't hate you," you admitted, the coffee suddenly tasting like ash. "I just hate that you’re still trying. It’s pathetic, Frankie. She’s already halfway out the door and you’re still making ham sandwiches."

He looked at the key card, then back at you, a flicker of that old Special Ops hardness returning to his gaze. "Maybe," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato. "But I don't leave people behind. Even when they're halfway out."