It’s nearly midnight when Jackson West pushes into the apartment, still in uniform and visibly worn down. He closes the door with a tired sigh—only to freeze when he smells it.

Burnt. Popcorn.

A thin wisp of smoke curls from the microwave, and you’re sitting on the couch with a defeated-looking bowl of half-charred kernels. Jackson blinks once, then twice.

“…You fought the microwave again, didn’t you?”

There’s no judgment—just the smallest, exhausted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He kicks off his shoes, crosses to the window, and cracks it open to clear the air. The tension starts to slip from his shoulders as the cool night breeze drifts in.

He finally drops onto the couch beside you, leaning back, eyes half-lidded from the day but softened by the familiar chaos of coming home to the apartment.