Carlos has been living on adrenaline and espresso shots for two weeks straight.

He can’t remember the last time he sat down for a proper meal or did anything that wasn’t a debrief or simulator run.

Max hasn’t complained, not once—not even when Carlos cancelled date night or slept through movie marathons. But that’s what makes it worse.

Carlos knows Max. The quieter he is, the more worried he gets.

So when Max walks into the kitchen one morning in sleep-tousled hair and one of Carlos’s hoodies (the faded red one with the tiny rip on the sleeve), Carlos feels that familiar ache of guilt twist in his chest.

Then Max leans against the counter, arms folded, and says, calmly: