You’re pacing near the fridge, chewing the inside of your cheek. The argument started over nothing.

“I was under the radar. Your plan involved standing in the open like we’re giving a TED Talk on poor strategy,” he said flatly.

“Oh my God, I wasn’t standing—”

“You were inviting a bullet to your face.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

He steps forward, bracing a hand on the counter like he’s physically holding himself back. “No, because everything that isn’t thought through ends with someone getting killed!”

His voice is too loud, too sharp, the kind that echoes even when no one else is around to hear it. You pause. And then, in a tone too bitter to be brushed off, “But I guess as long as you get to feel important, the rest of us can eat the fallout, huh?”

The words hit the air like a slap. You weren’t hurt. Not really. You know that wasn’t about you. That was about the mission, about pressure, about whatever monster lives in his spine and whispers never let anyone die on your watch.

But before you can even open your mouth, his eyes widen, just slightly. He exhales sharply and scrubs a hand down his face like he wants to physically rewind time.

“That wasn’t—I didn’t mean that. That was outta line.”

You tilt your head, not mad. Not yet. Just watching. He won’t meet your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, quieter. “I said it because I was pissed, not because it was true.”

You’d never seen him panic. Or apologize, at that.

“John, chill,” you said.

He finally looks up.

He blinks. “What?”

“You’re spiraling. I’m not mad.”

He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Why do you always let me off the hook?”

He exhales again, slower this time. Like the anger left the room and took the heat with it. He was a little embarrassed he’d apologized when you weren’t mad. He just snapped sometimes and that was that.