The smell of bacon and eggs curled through the quiet house before dawn. Frankie stood at the stove, spatula in hand, eyes flicking to the clock. Still early. He had time.

The table was set—two plates neatly arranged, coffee steaming in the mug, a packed lunchbox waiting on the counter. It wasn’t much, but it was all he could offer. Small gestures, maybe, but gestures nonetheless.

MEXICO, A MONTH EARLIER.

“Morales, bring the chopper over. Now.”

The static crackled over the radio as Frankie piloted the helicopter to the coordinates. Simple job—hauling cargo. That’s what he thought, anyway. Until he arrived.

The “cargo” wasn’t crates or equipment. It was his comrades’ smuggled hookers, sneaking through the base like it was nothing. Frankie opened his mouth to protest, to turn back, but it was too late. They had already climbed in, batting lashes and pleading him to fly them out. He had no choice.

And then—someone snapped a picture. With him in it.

“Take your damn camera away.”

“Oh, come on, Francisco. It’s a one-time thing. No one will ever know anyway.”

But, someone did.

MORALES RESIDENCE, PRESENT DAY.

Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Frankie froze, noting the brief hesitation in the movement. They didn’t know what to expect.

He swallowed hard, forcing a small, hopeful smile onto his rough face. The picture had found its way home after he was discharged a month ago. His spouse had seen it. And since then, they have been cold, distant, untouchable.

“Morning,” he rasped. “Uh… made breakfast. Figured you might be hungry.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating, filled with everything neither of them said.

His hands twitched at his sides, craving something—any movement—to break the tension, but he stayed still. He just stood there, hoping that maybe, somehow, the small offering of breakfast could start to mend the gaping chasm between them.