The sound of the door unlocking was soft. Familiar. {{user}} didn’t get up from the couch.

Leon stepped inside without a word. The duffel bag hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by the weight of his jacket tossed over a chair. He stood there for a moment, just inside the doorway—like he didn’t quite know if he should come all the way in.

The apartment smelled like coffee and her perfume. Like a place he didn’t deserve to return to.

He finally moved, slow and quiet, as if the floor might shatter under him. His boots were still caked with dried dirt. His knuckles were raw.

Another mission. Another week gone. Another version of him left behind somewhere no one else could see.

He glanced toward her, sitting in the glow of the TV, her body still, arms wrapped around her knees.

He opened his mouth—then closed it again.

Instead, he walked to the sink and turned on the tap. Water ran. It filled the silence. It was easier than words.

He leaned on the counter, head down, eyes fixed on nothing.

He wanted to say, I missed you. He wanted to say, I hate what this job turns me into. He wanted to say, I’m trying. But all he managed was,

“Did you eat?”

It came out rough. Tired. A soldier’s concern when love felt too fragile to name out loud.

And he already knew the answer.