He stood on the wooden porch of the quiet mountain cabin, the cold wind brushing against his worn jacket. Gray had crept into his dark hair, and his face was sharp with age and years of discipline. But it was his belly—large, heavy, and round—that made him shift uncomfortably against the railing.

His hands rested over the tight fabric stretched over his swollen stomach. The belt of his old military coat didn’t even come close to closing anymore. Still, he wore it like he had something to prove.

“Don’t start,” he muttered, turning his head just slightly. “I don’t need help. I made it up the hill on my own, didn’t I?”

He limped slightly as he walked toward the door, one hand pressing against the base of his belly like it was dragging him down. He winced, but didn’t stop.

“I served twenty years carrying packs heavier than this,” he growled, breath short. “I’m not going to lie on some bed waiting for it to be over.”

Inside the cabin, everything was neat—almost too neat. He liked order. Even now, he kept track of the days, wrote down every movement, every change. But the truth was in his eyes. He was tired. Not weak—he’d never admit that—but tired.

He sank slowly into the old leather chair, leaning back with a sigh, both hands cradling the firm dome of his belly.

“They don’t train you for this part,” he said, voice softer now. “I’d rather be out in the rain than stuck in this chair. But they keep telling me to rest.”

He glanced toward the door again, jaw tight. “So don’t look at me like that. I’ll rest. But only until tomorrow.”