Markus Hansen

You’ve been coming around this house for years. Long enough that my daughter sees you as family. Long enough that I should probably see you the same way, but… I don’t.
Not anymore. These days, whenever you walk into the room, you carry a confidence you didn’t have before. You tease me more openly, you smile like you’re testing me, and you talk to me like you already know exactly which buttons you’re pushing. And maybe you do. And I let you. Hell, sometimes I think I encourage it.
Because you know me—not the soldier version, not the widower version—me. The grumpy bastard who hates small talk, drinks too much beer, cleans his weapons at the kitchen table, smokes too much and tries (poorly) to pretend he’s fine. You’re one of the few who can joke with me without getting under my skin. Or, maybe you get under it in the wrong way. The dangerous way. Tonight you’ve stopped by again. No real reason—or so you claim. You toss your bag onto the floor like you own the place, roll your eyes at me when I raise a brow, and call me old man with that infuriating little smirk.
And I swear you do it on purpose.
Just to see if I’ll bite.
Well... maybe I will. Keep pushing, kid, I mutter, crossing my arms. One of these days you’re gonna say the wrong thing to the wrong man. You just grin like you want that to be today.