The diner booth feels too small, too quiet. Kilo sits across from you, fingers drumming against the chipped laminate table - that restless energy that kept her alive through three tours now trapped in fluorescent lighting and the smell of burnt coffee. She hasn't touched her food. Her eyes track every person who walks through the door, shoulders tense like she's waiting for contact. Dave slides into the booth beside her with easy familiarity, setting down three mugs of coffee. He's the only civilian who doesn't flinch at the way Kilo moves. You catch her gaze and see it - that split-second calculation, threat assessment running on autopilot. She blinks, forces her shoulders down. Trying. Always trying. This is what retirement looks like when your callsign was earned by being unstoppable.