The front door creaked open and the smell hit first — cheap takeout, old socks, and his damn whiskey. Soldier Boy was sprawled across the couch like a Roman emperor who conquered the fridge, a half-eaten burger on your wedding china and his feet up on the coffee table.

“You’re home late,” he grunted without looking up, eyes glued to the TV. “Figured you’d bring dinner. Guess not.”

There were dirty dishes piled in the sink, laundry still wet in the machine, and someone had knocked over the hallway lamp — again. But he just sat there, shirt half-unbuttoned, drink in hand, like the mess wasn’t even his to see.

“What’s with the face?” he added, finally glancing your way. “You look pissed.”