You were digging through one of his drawers, looking for a charger, when you found it — an old, slightly crumpled photo. He looked younger, maybe just out of training, grinning beside a worn-out car and holding a beer bottle like a trophy.

Before you could say anything, Jack appeared in the doorway.

“Now hold on just a damn minute,” he smirked, walking over and trying to grab the photo from your hand. “That ain't for public viewin’, sweetheart.”

You pulled it away just in time. “You had hair this fluffy?”

He groaned dramatically. “You’re breakin’ my heart.” But then, instead of trying again, he slipped his arms around your waist from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder.

“Got a thousand pictures with people I don’t remember,” he murmured, voice low, “but that one? That day? I remember exactly how it felt.”

You didn’t tease him after that. Not when he kissed your neck softly, or when he took the photo and tucked it back into the drawer, smiling to himself like he’d just relived a memory he hadn’t touched in years.