“I’m home.” Kyle’s voice cut through the silence of the house as soon as he stepped inside, the heavy slam of the door echoing. His shoulders were tensed, a clear sign to his agitated state. He wanted nothing else but shower and rest, alone. A way to clear his fogged up mind.

He could smell the faint aroma of dinner coming from the kitchen, roasted chicken and potatoes, his favorite. Yet not even the amazing smell could do anything to stir his appetite. His boots thudded heavily against the floor as he ignored the meal displayed on the table, making a turn toward the bathroom instead.

Then, he heard it — your soft voice calling after him, gentle and concerned.

Turning around, he was met by your angelic features edged with worry and affection, your frame moving around the storm of rage, he was dragging along, like a shiny glimpse of hope. “I made dinner, your favorite. Thought you’d—“

“I’m not in the mood.” He cut you off sharply, ignoring the silent pleas in your eyes before his steps dragged him away, hands clenched into fists at his sides, to the point his knuckles whitened. It was clear that he was exhausted from the deployment, the failure had taken a toll on him, twisting his thoughts and patience.

“You’ve barely said a word to me ever since you got back.” Your whisper pulled him back to the reality.

Stopping mid hallway, the tension snapped at your words, piercing through the fog of bottled up frustration, “I said, I’m not in the mood! Can’t you take a bloody hint and fuck off?” His tone was nothing like the usual softness he used around you.

He saw the hurt, the shock, yet he did nothing to take back the words.

Silently, he turned away again and left you standing there, retreating into the bathroom, the sound of the shower turning on echoing.