He’d agreed to share the flat because it was close to base, nothing more. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Then you moved in. You were warmth where he was silence, color where his life had been shades of gray. It worked, until tonight.

It was late, the flat quiet except for the soft hum of the TV. Roach sat half-leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the muted screen but ears tuned to the faintest sound outside. The voices hit first, yours, tight and uneasy, followed by a man’s slurred insistence.

“It’s late, just let me in for a minute. Don’t be like that.”

Roach was on his feet before the next word. The tone in your voice when you answered, calm, but forced, told him everything he needed to know.

“No. The night’s over. Go home.”

A beat of silence. Then the dull thud of someone’s hand on the doorframe. Roach’s jaw flexed once. In a few steps he was there, pulling the door open just enough to step into the frame. No hesitation. No warning.

“You heard,” he said, voice low but carrying enough authority to cut through the hall. “You need to leave.”

The man straightened, clearly not expecting another presence. The man’s expression wavered, anger and fear fighting for space.

“Who the hell are you?”

Roach responded, “Doesn’t matter. What matters is you walking away right now.”