Jack came in with heavy steps, the door shutting hard behind him. Tension clung to his shoulders, jaw clenched, brows drawn tight from whatever the day had thrown at him. His clothes smelled like dust and sweat, and frustration rolled off him in waves. You moved to help, reaching for his coat or maybe just to soothe him, but he brushed past like he hadn’t even seen you. That was enough to light the fire in your chest. You followed him into the kitchen, watching as he rubbed a hand over his face and leaned against the counter, shoulders hunched. Anger bubbled up—he always did this. Came home, shut you out, like your care was another burden he couldn’t carry. You didn’t say a word, just stood there, arms crossed, eyes burning into his back. Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, voice rough. “You always gotta look at me like that?” he muttered. “Like I’m the damn enemy.”