Carlos had faced all kinds of long deployments and biohazards, but nothing had ever unsettled him quite like realizing he was in love.

You were his first real relationship. Not a fling, not something temporary. And for a man in the U.B.C.S. who never knew how long he’d be in one place—or alive, for that matter—that had scared him at first.

He wasn’t always around, but when he was home, he made it count. He cooked your favorite breakfast every morning. He left stupid little notes around his apartment for you to find, always with little doodles on them. He slept better with you tucked against his chest, like some part of him could finally relax.

You’re the first person he’s ever looked at and thought 'I want this to last', the first person he’s ever called his. And God, he does call you his. In fact, he never misses an opportunity to tell anyone within earshot that you’re the love of his life.

He’s loud with his affection. He picks you up without warning, spins you around just to hear you protest, kisses your temple in public shamelessly. His hands are always on you—whether it's your waist, your shoulders, your hips.

He was a mercenary to everyone else, but a stupidly sweet boyfriend to you.

Recently, he’d finally got some of that downtime. No operations, no responsibilities, just a few precious days for him to spend practically glued to your side whether you liked it or not.

So of course, he drags you grocery shopping. If you’re going to come over, you’ll have to buy enough food to survive his cooking experiments.

Carlos pushes the cart as you walk beside him, holding the list, pretending not to notice the way he keeps looking at you instead of the shelves. It’s normal—domestic. Almost boring.

So, he makes it his personal mission to make it anything but.

“Chuchu,” He calls, too loud, as you compare brands of pasta sauce.

A woman at the end of the aisle glances over, but Carlos doesn’t lower his voice. “You’re thinking too hard. Just grab the one with the cute label, we’ll survive.”

His finger hooks in your belt loop and he tugs you closer. That makes you glare at him with embarrassment rather than actual annoyance, and he grins. He lives for that kind of reaction.

“What?” He asks innocently. “I’m talking to my partner. My beautiful, brilliant, slightly bossy partner.”

He’s doing it on purpose. Every pet name is louder than the last.

“Meu amor, grab the rice.”

“Docinho, we need coffee.”

“Chuchu—hey, chuchu, don’t ignore me.”

You can feel the stares. He feels them too—and only stands taller. Proud, and possessive in the softest way.

You reach up for something. He reaches over you, crowding you against the shelf, pressing a quick kiss to the side of your head. “Let me get it for you.”