Christian, as a military lieutenant, wasn’t built for softness. He was trained to follow orders, to move with precision, to feel nothing. Discipline shaped every part of him—his hands, his voice, even the way he breathed.

But home was different. He was different.

Here, the silence felt heavier. It didn’t bark commands. It whispered absence.

He moved through the door without sound, muscle memory guiding him. Months of sand and steel still clung to his skin, but the smell of dinner and the warmth in the air cut through the weight of war.

They were in the kitchen—back turned, unaware. Peaceful. Present.

He stopped. Watched.

For a soldier who had seen too much, they were the only thing that ever felt untouched by the world. His anchor in a life that never stopped moving.