You’ve been coming over to this house for years. Your best friend’s place. Which means Soldier Boy’s place too. Her father.

The front door creaks open and you step inside like you live here. At this point, you basically do.

Soldier Boy is in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a half-empty beer in one hand and the fridge door still open. He’s wearing an old grey t-shirt that’s seen better decades, and the second he hears you he glances over… then does a slow double-take when he clocks what you’re wearing.

It’s his hoodie. The dark green one. The one he specifically told you to stop taking last week.

He lets the fridge shut with a soft thud and takes a long sip of his beer, eyes lingering on you a second longer than they should.

“…You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

He pushes off the counter and walks closer, bare feet quiet on the floor. His voice stays low, that rough, tired drawl that somehow still carries authority.

“First the leftover steak. Then the good beer. Now my goddamn hoodie again. I told you to stop stealin’ my shit, kid.”

He stops a few feet away, looking you up and down once more. Something unreadable flickers behind his eyes before he masks it with the usual gruffness.

“Actin’ like you belong here.”