ARCH - Back to my John Walker era

you didn’t expect this. john walker, at your door, in the middle of the night? what an asshole. your hair is so disheveled, all over the place, your shirt wrinkly and your sleep shorts a bit messed up. your hand is on the door as you stare at him through narrowed eyes. “something on your mind, walker?” you ask, simply, flatly, voice hoarse with sleep. john shifts on his feet awkwardly, his hands stuffed into his jacket’s pockets. “no. maybe.” he says. “no, yeah. yeah.”

“what the hell? you good?” you inquire as you scratch your head, still trying to adjust to the light in your hallway. you squint your eyes even more as if it’ll help you see if john is injured in some way.

john sighs deeply, pulling his hands out of the confines of his jacket, his fists clenched tight. “just.. work with me here.” he says, not even daring to look you in the eyes. “i’m trying, that’s for sure. want to come in?” you say as you step aside, gesturing for john to walk inside. he does so, hesitantly. he kicks off his boots clumsily, still not sparing a glance your way. he stood there like he wasn’t sure if he belonged there. “you have something you want me to know or what?” your voice breaks him out of his mild stupor. “what?”

“i asked if there is something you want to say to me or did you just come here to crash on my couch? if that’s the case, go right ahead.” you laughed, your slippers making soft sounds as you stepped closer to him. “no, no. i don’t need to- sleep on the couch. but that’s awfully kind of you.” he points out as he straightens his back, his eyes meeting yours. that sent a spark throughout him. oh shit. “i’m here because i wanna talk.”

“that so? you feeling alright?” you ask almost immediately, concern etched into your otherwise still sleepy face. “yes, m’fine, i just— fuck, i’m gonna sound so stupid.” that gets an eyebrow raise out of you. “i was going to say that you always do, but for the sake of the moment, where you seem to be vulnerable, i won’t.”

“you just did.” john deadpanned.

“no, this is different, come on. tell me, i’m all ears.”

“it’s— okay, i’ve been thinking a lot,” he cuts himself off, rubbing a hand over his forehead. when he notices you feign your surprise, he loses all focus. “let me finish my sentence.”

“oh,” you mutter in realization. “i thought that was all you had to say, i was getting nervous,” you chuckle out, putting your hands on your hips.

“i’ve been thinking a lot.” john tries again. “about me. you.” he pauses, eyes wandering over your face. you were listening so intently and it made him anxious. “us.”

“me? us?” you start. “what about us?”

“fuuccck,” he groans out quietly, momentarily burying his face in his hands. when he looks up at you again, he looks more determined. “i don’t know how to say this without sounding like a complete idiot. or a weirdo.”

“you’re being more vague than usual right now, is this a special occasion?” you tease, a smirk on your face as you not-so-subtly look him up and down. “i know, damn.” he mutters, scratching his chin in a poor attempt to distract himself from the anxiousness he was feeling. “i didn’t know.. that i could ever feel like this about another man. about- you.”

“is this a confession?” you say.

the tips of his ears are red, his face flushed. he’s shy as hell. “that’s— a- i don’t— hell if i know.” he finally stammers out, fidgeting with his hands. “i was a total jackass to you- i know that. but i do like you. i think. i’m confused.” he is ansty, his voice tight and trembly. “i’m not used to feeling like this. i just- i’m so lost.”

“woah, hey,” you place a steady hand on his shoulder. “lost is a very obscure word. you’re just figuring yourself out. that’s okay.” john looked at you, confusion and, of course, nervousness visible in his facial expression. “you weren’t... exactly subtle about it. so i kinda figured you had a thing for me.”

“what?”

“this is cute though, every word you said was so genuine. and you’re nervous. so adorable.” you smile at him, thumb rubbing into the fabric of his jacket. “you knew?” he inquires, eyes widening.

“no. i had a hunch?”

“you knew and i was acting like an idiot around you all this time? oh fuck,” john says, voice more panicked than ever, pulling away from you as he starts pacing back and forth. “i’m so stupid. i can’t believe this. i just made the biggest fool out of myself. i shouldn’t have come here.” he rambles, running a hand through his hair.

“i’m glad you told me. even if it was in the middle of the night which doesn’t make much sense. but still,” you reassure him softly. “i am willing to try this out with you if you’re up for it.”

now that got his full attention. “but i— i haven’t..” he trailed off, gesturing something with his hand. “i haven’t been with a man.. before. i don’t think it’s a.. good idea.” he finishes, eyes locked onto the ground.

“john, relationships don’t come with manual books. we’ll figure it out. together. we can give it a try?” you suggest again, and this time, the offer seems more tempting than ever.

“..are you sure? you sure you wanna do this, with me?”

“i am. i’m sure.”

Being a parent was new. Being a parent to a kid who wasn't biologically yours? That was uncharted territory.

​It wasn’t that you minded being in Waylon’s life; in fact, you craved it. After years of the military—of being the government’s shiny, disposable super soldier for the sake of "the mission"—having something real to come home to was a breath of fresh air. Actually having a family felt like the first thing you’d ever done for yourself.

​You’d gotten engaged to John Walker of all people nearly a year ago. He was, as you frequently reminded him, the biggest pain in your ass—stubborn, overly intense, and far too loud for your quietness. But you loved him, and more surprisingly, you’d found a genuine friend in his ex-wife, Olivia. Then there was Waylon. At six years old, the kid was a walking encyclopedia of shark facts, a passion that had dominated the household for the last two years.

​You loved the kid. He was well-behaved, and in the quiet moments, he felt like your own. That feeling was even stronger now that Olivia was traveling out of state, leaving you and John on full-time "Dad duty" for a few weeks. You’d even been the one to promise the aquarium trip; their new shark exhibit had just opened, and there was no way Waylon was going to pass up a chance to see a Great White in the flesh.

​The morning air was still cool and grey when the bedroom door creaked on its hinges. You didn't even have to open your eyes to know who it was. A heavy, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of small footsteps crossed the carpet, and then a sudden weight settled onto the mattress in front of you.

​Small, insistent hands hooked into the edge of the duvet, peeling it back. Then came the familiar, puffing warmth of Waylon’s breath against your cheek.

​“Daddy,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with an urgency usually reserved for tactical extractions.

​You groaned into the pillow, the sound muffled and pained. You cracked one eye open just enough to see his wide, hopeful stare. “Baby….it’s not even six yet. The sun isn’t even awake.”

​You felt a shift behind you. John finally turned over, his bare chest pressing against your back as he hooked an arm over your waist, effectively pinning you down. You suspected he’d been awake for minutes, likely smugly listening to you struggle.

​Waylon pouted, his lower lip trembling with the sheer injustice of a schedule. “But the sharks, Daddy. The aquarium.”

​John’s voice was a low, gravelly rumble against your shoulder, thick with sleep. “Buddy, the sharks are still sleeping. The doors don't even unlock 'til eleven. Go back to your bed for a bit.”

Waylon let out a long, dramatic sigh that seemed far too heavy for a six-year-old’s lungs. He dejectedly climbed down from the duvet, his small feet padding softly across the carpet as he retreated toward his own room.

​John let out a quiet huff of amusement against your shoulder. Normally, Waylon was a sleeper—you could usually count on him being dead to the world until at least nine or ten on a weekend. But the siren call of the shark exhibit was a powerful motivator. You had a feeling he wouldn’t actually stay awake, though. He’d either crash for another two-hour power nap or tuck himself under his sheets with that new National Geographic shark book you’d bought him, memorizing the jaw pressure of a Bull Shark until his brain gave out.

​The room fell into a comfortable, weighted silence, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft sound of the wind against the window. John didn't pull away. Instead, he nuzzled deeper into the crook of your neck, his stubble grazing your skin as he peppered lazy, lingering kisses along your shoulder.

​You reached back, tangling your fingers into the short, blonde hair at the nape of his neck. He was warm—radiating that high-octane heat that only seemed to come from super soldiers and well-fed space heaters.

​"Morning," he whispered, his voice vibrating right against your skin.

​You finally shifted, groaning as you rolled over in the tangle of sheets to face him. His blue eyes were soft, devoid of the hardened edge the world usually saw. You leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. "Mmm. Morning, handsome."

​"We have at least three hours before we even need to think about putting on real pants," John murmured, his hand sliding up from your waist to cup your cheek. His thumb traced your jawline with a tenderness that still caught you off guard sometimes. "Maybe four."

​"Waylon’s going to be vibrating out of his skin by nine," you countered with a smile, though you didn't move an inch. "You know how he gets. He’s probably already naming the sharks in his head."

​John chuckled, a low sound that rumbled in his chest. "He gets that from you. The obsessive research phase? That’s all you, babe. I just provide the muscle and the snacks."

​"Oh, please. You're the one who bought him the shark-themed pajamas and the matching slippers," you reminded him, poking him playfully in the ribs. "You’re a pushover and you know it."

​"Only for my two favorite people," he admitted, pulling you closer until there was no daylight between you. He rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm. "I was thinking….after the aquarium, maybe we grab dinner at that burger place he likes? The one with the crazy milkshakes? I think we earned a win after the week we’ve had."

​You nodded, eyes closing as you soaked in the domesticity of it all. This was the life you’d fought for—the quiet, the mundane, the love. "I think that sounds perfect. But if he gets a sugar rush and starts doing laps around the living room, you’re the one catching him."

​"Deal." He kissed you again, deeper this time, a slow-burn promise of a quiet morning.

​Eventually, the reality of hungry stomachs won out. With a reluctant groan, you untangled yourself from the warmth of the bed and John’s lingering grip. You threw on a discarded t-shirt and made your way down the hall, pausing at Waylon’s door.

​The room was a shrine to the deep sea. Stuffed hammerheads and great whites were perched on every available surface, and his bookshelf was a library of marine biology. For a six-year-old, he was surprisingly meticulous; his coloring books were stacked neatly, and his LEGO sets weren't the usual hazard on the floor.

​Sure enough, Waylon was a lump under his blue-and-grey sheets. A flashlight beam poked out from the top, illuminating the pages of his book.

​"Hey, big guy," you leaned against the doorframe. "Want to help me make some breakfast? I’m thinking blueberry pancakes. Maybe some bacon?"

​The sheets exploded. Waylon tossed the book aside instantly, his face lighting up with a gap-toothed grin. "Pancakes!"

​You stepped into the room and scooped him up in one fluid motion, ignoring his squeal of delight as you flung him over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He giggled uncontrollably, his small hands thumping against your back as you carried him toward the kitchen.

​"To the galley!" he shouted, his earlier grumpiness completely forgotten.

The kitchen was filled with the early morning light, the kind of pale gold that made the steam from the kettle look like glowing dust. You set Waylon down on the kitchen island, his little legs swinging back and forth in his shark-patterned pajama pants.

​"Alright, First Mate," you said, reaching into the pantry for the flour and the big mixing bowl. "You know the drill. Dry ingredients first, then the wet.”

​Waylon nodded with grave seriousness, his eyes tracking the measuring cup as you handed it to him. He was meticulous for a six-year-old, leveling off the flour with a butter knife just like you’d taught him. Together, you built a small mountain of white powder, followed by the sugar and a pinch of salt.

​The sizzle of bacon hit the air as you laid the strips into a cold pan, letting the fat render out slowly. The smell was heavenly—the universal signal that the weekend had officially begun.

​"Blueberries now?" Waylon asked, hovering his hand over the plastic carton like a crane operator.

​"Not yet, big guy. We fold those in at the end so they don't pop and turn the whole thing purple," you explained, cracking the eggs. "Give that a whisk. Nice and easy."

​While Waylon worked the whisk with both hands, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, John wandered into the kitchen. He looked every bit the retired soldier—hair sleep-mussed, jaw shadowed with stubble, and wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He looked rugged, domestic, and entirely too handsome for someone who had just woken up.

​"Need a hand, Chef?" John asked, leaning over your shoulder to steal a piece of the half-cooked bacon.

​"Hands off the merchandise, Walker," you teased, swatting his hand away with a spatula. "But yeah, grab the griddle. It’s in the bottom cabinet."

​John hummed, moving with that effortless, predatory grace he never quite lost, even when he was just looking for a frying pan. He set the griddle over the burners and waited for it to get hot. Once you’d finished the batter, John took the ladle.

​"I got this," he said confidently. "Precision is my middle name, remember?"

​He dropped the first three circles of batter onto the sizzling surface. For a minute, it looked like he had it under control. But then he got distracted, leaning back against the counter to watch you move around the kitchen, his eyes trailing after you with a soft, hungry look that had nothing to do with breakfast.

​A sharp, acrid smell began to waft up.

​"John," you warned.

​"I'm on it, I'm on it!" he insisted, diving for the spatula. He flipped the first pancake with a flourish, only to reveal a charred, blackened disc that looked more like a hockey puck than breakfast.

​The kitchen went silent. Waylon stopped whisking. He looked at the burnt pancake, then looked up at his father with a look of pure, unadulterated judgment—the kind only a child can deliver.

​"Dad," Waylon said, his voice small but incredibly stern.

​John winced. "Hey, it’s just the first one, buddy. The first one is always the sacrificial lamb. It prepares the pan."

​Waylon didn't buy it. He crossed his small arms over his chest, his brow furrowed in a perfect imitation of John’s own scowls. "No. You're gonna ruin the shark pancakes. You should go make the bean juice."

​John blinked, stunned. "The….bean juice?"

​"Coffee," you translated, biting back a laugh as you moved in to take the spatula from John’s hand. "He’s demoting you, John. You’ve been reassigned to the beverage station."

​Waylon nodded vigorously. "Yeah. Make coffee for you and daddy. Leave the pancakes to the professionals."

​John let out a dramatic, wounded sigh, putting his hands up in surrender. "Reassigned? In my own kitchen? By a guy who still needs help reaching the sink?" He leaned down, ruffling Waylon’s hair until the kid giggled and tried to duck away. "Fine. But don't come crying to me when your pancakes aren't good.

​"Daddy makes 'em look like Fins!" Waylon shouted triumphantly.

​"He’s got me there," John muttered, moving toward the coffee maker with a smirk. He caught your eye over Waylon’s head, shaking his head with a smile.

​You just winked at him, expertly flipping a perfectly golden-brown pancake. "Go on, John. Get that caffeine started. We’ve got a big day.

The morning air was crisp and bright as the three of you finally migrated toward the driveway. John was currently wrestling with the straps of Waylon’s car seat—a high-backed, reinforced throne that looked more like a cockpit than a toddler's chair. John took the task with a level of intensity usually reserved for disarming an explosive. He clicked the chest clip, tightened the tether, and then gave the entire seat a firm, experimental shake that rocked the whole SUV.

​"Solid," John grunted, satisfied. He tapped the roof of the car twice, a habit from his days in the field.

​Meanwhile, you were doing the final inventory check on the sidewalk. Waylon was already geared up, looking like he was ready for a deep-sea expedition. He wore his favorite shark-themed backpack—a plush, grey Great White with felt teeth and a dorsal fin that poked up behind his head. Attached to the bottom of the shark's tail was a sturdy, coiled leash.

​It had been a gift from Olivia, and while John had initially rolled his eyes at it, calling it a "kiddy tether," you both knew it was a tactical necessity. Waylon didn't just walk; he launched. If he saw something blue, something shimmering, or something with gills, he was gone like a shot, leaving nothing but a faint breeze in his wake.

​"Got the emergency snacks? The extra water? The shark encyclopedia?" you asked, ticking items off on your fingers.

​Waylon patted his backpack with a hollow thump. "Check, daddy!"

​"Good man," you said, ruffling his hair before steering him toward the open door.

​John stepped back, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead as he watched you head for the driver’s side. He paused, his hand on the passenger door handle, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "You’re driving? I’m a world-class driver, baby. I can get us there in half the time."

​"That’s exactly why I’m driving, John," you replied, sliding into the leather seat and clicking your belt into place. "I’ve seen you drive in the desert. I’ve seen you drive in Munich. I’d like to arrive at the aquarium with all four wheels still attached to the chassis and my soul still inside my body. I’m pretty sure your license was a bribe from the Department of Defense anyway."

​John let out a dry, short bark of a laugh, finally climbing into the passenger seat. "I have never once crashed a civilian vehicle."

​"You parked a sedan into a fountain three months ago," you reminded him, shifting the car into reverse.

​"The fountain shouldn't have been in my blind spot," he muttered, though the smirk playing on his lips told you he wasn't actually offended.

​The drive was a chaotic symphony of domestic bliss. From the back seat, Waylon provided a constant, high-energy narration of every body of water we passed. A drainage ditch was a "secret eel habitat," and a neighbor’s swimming pool was "definitely big enough for a Megalodon, but they’d be cramped."

​As you navigated the suburban turns, the radio played a low, upbeat indie track, but it was quickly drowned out by Waylon’s demands for the Jaws theme. John, never one to deny his son a dramatic entrance, pulled up the soundtrack on his phone, and soon the ominous dun-dun….dun-dun….was thrumming through the car’s speakers.

​"We're hunters, dad!" Waylon whispered, his face pressed against the glass as he scanned the passing cars for "prey."

​"We're tourists, Waylon," John corrected, though he was tapping his fingers on his knee in time with the beat. "Very disciplined, very hungry tourists."

​The city skyline began to rise up ahead, shimmering in the midday heat. You felt John’s hand move from his lap, his fingers finding yours on the center console. He squeezed your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a slow, grounding rhythm. When you glanced over, he wasn't looking at the road; he was looking at you, a quiet, fierce sort of pride in his eyes.

​"You okay?" he asked softly, his voice dropping below the volume of the music and Waylon’s excited chatter.

​"Yeah," you breathed, squeezing his hand back. "Just thinking about how much easier this is than being shot at."

​"Slightly louder, though," John joked, nodding toward the back seat where Waylon was now trying to explain to a stuffed hammerhead why they couldn't actually keep a jellyfish in the bathtub.

​The closer you got to the aquarium, the more the tension in the back seat rose. Waylon was practically vibrating, his small hands gripping the edge of his car seat as the salt-scented air started to drift through the vents.

​"I see the blue building!" Waylon shrieked, pointing a frantic finger at the massive, wave-shaped structure of the aquarium looming over the docks. "Dad, daddy! It’s the shark house! It’s the shark house!"

​"Deep breaths," you said, pulling into the parking garage. "We have to find a spot first. Patience."

​"I don't want patience!" Waylon wailed, though he was grinning from ear to ear. "I want to see the sharks!"

​You caught John’s eye as you spiraled up the concrete ramps of the garage. He looked energized, the prospect of a "mission"—even one involving a six-year-old and a bunch of fish—bringing that sharp, focused light back into his gaze.

​"He’s your problem the moment we hit the sidewalk," John teased, though he was already reaching for the door handle. "I’m just the guy with the wallet.”

​"Nice try, Walker," you laughed, pulling into a tight parking spot and killing the engine. "You’re holding the leash. I’m taking the pictures.”

The moment the sliding glass doors of the aquarium hissed open, a wave of cool, saltwater-scented air and the low hum of a hundred excited families hit you. It was packed. The lobby was a sea of strollers and shouting toddlers, a chaotic environment that would have made the old John Walker tense up and look for the nearest exit.

​But today, John didn't flinch. He saw Waylon’s eyes go wide at the crowd, the boy’s hand tightening instinctively on the leash of his shark backpack. Without a word, John reached down, hooked his hands under Waylon’s armpits, and hoisted him up in one smooth motion. Waylon’s sneakers dangled against John’s chest before he settled firmly onto his father’s broad shoulders.

​"Perch with a view, buddy," John said, his voice steady and grounding. "You’re the lookout. Tell us where we’re heading."

​"Everything!" Waylon shouted, his hands gripping John’s hair for balance. "I want to see the glowing jellies! And the rays! And the….the big turtles!"

​You smiled, pulling your phone out to capture the moment. John caught you looking and gave a mock-serious salute, despite the fact that a six-year-old was currently using his head as a tripod. You snapped the photo—John, looking rugged and surprisingly soft with his son on his shoulders, and Waylon, pointing toward the ceiling with pure, unadulterated joy.

​The next two hours were a blur of neon-blue tanks and shimmering scales. You moved through the "Jellyfish Forest," where the tanks were lit with shifting purples and pinks. Waylon leaned down from John's shoulders, whispering "Whoa" every time a translucent bell pulsed past. You took photos of the two of them reflected in the glass, John’s silhouette towering and protective behind the small, eager frame of his son.

​John was taking photos, too. Every time you stopped to explain a plaque to Waylon or leaned in to show him a camouflaged seahorse, you’d hear the quiet click of John’s camera. When you looked up, you caught him watching you—not the fish. There was a look in his blue eyes that made your heart ache; it was a mixture of relief and disbelief, like he still couldn't quite believe this version of his life was real. He loved the way you stepped into the role of ‘Daddy’ without hesitation, how you handled Waylon’s endless questions with patience he was still learning to find.

​"Okay, guys," you said, checking the map. "Tunnel time. This leads to the main event."

​The glass tunnel was an architectural marvel, a transparent bridge that cut right through the heart of the massive central tank. As you entered, the light shifted, turning everything a deep, ethereal turquoise. John carefully lowered Waylon from his shoulders, but before the boy’s feet could even hit the ground, you scooped him up onto your shoulders.

​"My turn for the heavy lifting," you joked, grunting slightly as Waylon settled in.

​"Look, daddy! Above us!" Waylon’s voice was hushed now, filled with awe.

​High above, a massive sea turtle drifted lazily through the water, its flippers moving like wings. Schools of silver fish swirled in a glittering vortex, and for a moment, it felt like the three of you were walking on the ocean floor. Waylon’s hands were flat against the curved glass above his head, his mouth hanging open as a stingray glided directly over him, its pale underside looking like a smiling face.

​John walked close beside you, his arm brushing yours in the narrow passage. "He’s never going to forget this," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

​"Neither am I," you replied softly.

​Finally, the tunnel opened up into a massive, darkened cavern. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling acrylic panels, and the blue light was replaced by a deep, predatory grey.

​The crowd had thinned out here, leaving only a few other families scattered along the long benches. The silence was heavy and respectful, broken only by the low rumble of the filtration system.

​"Okay, big guy," you said, gently lowering Waylon to his feet. "Go explore. But be aware, alright?"

​Waylon didn't need to be told twice. The moment his sneakers hit the carpet, he was off—not at a sprint, but at a determined, wide-eyed march toward the glass. He pressed his nose against the acrylic, his small hands spread wide.

​Just then, a sleek Blacktip Reef Shark cruised past, its yellow eyes scanning the water. Then came another—a Sand Tiger Shark with its jagged, terrifying teeth on full display. Waylon didn't flinch. He giggled, his reflection dancing in the water as he started "racing" the sharks along the length of the tank, his little leash trailing behind him like a tail.

​John leaned back against a pillar, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched Waylon run back and forth in the dim light. He looked over at you, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.

​"You did good, babe," John said, reaching out to hook a finger in your belt loop and pull you an inch closer. "The pancakes, the drive, the sharks….he’s in heaven."

​"We're a good team, John," you said, leaning your head against his shoulder as you both watched the boy you were raising together.

​Waylon turned back toward you, pointing frantically at a massive shark resting on the sandy bottom. “Daddy! Dad! Look! It's a Nurse Shark! She's napping!"

The gift shop had been a retreat. You’d managed to navigate the aisles of overpriced plastic shark teeth and neon-colored t-shirts, but the plushie wall was Waylon’s final boss. He hadn't gone for the flashy Great White or the hammerhead with the googly eyes. Instead, he’d plucked a sand-colored, incredibly soft Nurse Shark from the bottom shelf, hugging it to his chest with a finality that suggested he’d found a long-lost sibling.

​"Because she was napping, Dad," Waylon explained with a yawn as John swiped his card. "She needs a bed."

​"She’s gonna have a very nice bed in the backseat," John promised, ruffling Waylon’s hair as he handed him the bag.

​By the time the SUV pulled into the parking lot of The Salty Bun, the adrenaline of the shark exhibit was clearly beginning to leak out of Waylon’s system. The walk from the car to the booth was slower than the morning's sprint. Waylon was clutching his new shark, officially named Sandy.

​The burger joint was loud—greasy-spoon energy with red vinyl booths and the smell of frying onions—but for the three of you, it felt like a sanctuary. John slid into the booth first, and Waylon climbed in next to him, immediately burying his face in John’s side.

​"You okay, scout?" John asked, his voice dropping into that low, protective register he saved only for the house.

​"Hungry," Waylon murmured into John’s t-shirt. "And my legs feel like noodles."

​"That’s what happens when you do ten miles of shark-patrol," you said, opening the menu. "Order whatever you want. You earned it."

​You and John made quick work of ordering—three double bacon cheeseburgers and a side of "sea-salt" fries that Waylon insisted were better because they sounded like the ocean. John ordered a black coffee, looking like he needed the caffeine just to make it through the final leg of the day, while you opted for a water.

​As you waited for the food, the conversation was quiet. John reached across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles. "Four hours," he mouthed, glancing at his watch. "We were in there for four hours."

​"I think we looked at every single scale on every single fish," you whispered back, smiling. "I have approximately four hundred photos of the back of Waylon's head."

​John chuckled, but his eyes drifted back to his son. Waylon had propped his chin up on the table, his eyes tracking the ceiling fan with a slow, rhythmic blink. The shark was tucked under his chin, acting as a makeshift pillow.

​"He's fading fast," John noted.

​"He's not just fading, John. He's crashing," you said.

​When the waitress finally arrived with the tray, the smell of hot grease and melting cheese usually would have sent Waylon into a frenzy. But as the plate of sliders was set in front of him, he didn't move. He just stared at the fries like they were a complex math problem he didn't have the energy to solve.

​"Eat up, buddy," you encouraged softly. "You need the fuel."

​Waylon picked up a fry, took a single, slow bite, and then rested his head back down on the table. "Dad….he shark is heavy."

​"The stuffed shark?" John asked, hiding a grin.

​"No….the real ones. My head feels like a shark."

​John looked at you, a silent "Oh boy" written across his face. He reached over, cut a burger in half, and basically hand-fed Waylon a few bites. The kid ate mechanically, his eyelids drooping lower with every chew. He managed about half a slider and five fries before his head finally came to a rest on John’s muscular forearm.

​"That's it," John whispered, looking down at the top of Waylon's head. "He's been defeated by a cheeseburger."

​You looked at the scene—the half-eaten food, the neon lights reflecting off the window, and your fiancé holding a sleeping six-year-old in a greasy burger joint. It was a far cry from the life you’d both led before, and yet, looking at the exhausted, content slump of Waylon’s shoulders, you knew you wouldn't trade this for any medal or mission in the world.

​"I’ll get the check," you said, reaching for your wallet. "You think you can carry him to the car without waking him?"

​John looked down at Waylon, then back at you with a confident, tired smirk. "Babe, I’ve carried ruck sacks through the Alps in a blizzard. I think I can handle one sleepy shark-expert."

The ride home was a quiet blur of orange streetlights and the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt. In the back seat, Waylon was out cold, his head lolling against the side of his car seat, the "Nurse" shark still clutched firmly under one arm.

​When you pulled into the driveway, John didn't even wait for you to kill the engine before he was out of the car. He moved with a practiced, silent efficiency, clicking the car seat buckles with a surgeon’s precision. He scooped Waylon up, tucking the boy’s head into the crook of his neck. Waylon let out a tiny, soft huff of breath but didn't wake, his small hand curling instinctively into the fabric of John’s t-shirt.

​You grabbed the shark backpack and the leftover fries, following them into the house like a silent shadow. The hallway was dim, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the windows.

​Inside Waylon’s room, the air smelled like laundry detergent and old books. John lowered him onto the bed while you worked on the shoes—peeling off the velcro sneakers and the shark socks with agonizing slowness. Every time the bedsprings creaked, both of you froze, looking like two elite commandos trying to bypass a laser grid.

​"Pajamas?" John mouthed, his eyebrows raised in a silent question.

​"No," you whispered back, shaking your head. "If we move him too much, he’s up for an encore. Just the shirt."

​You helped John slide Waylon’s t-shirt off and replaced it with a soft oversized tee. You pulled the heavy blue duvet up to his chin, tucking the stuffed nurse shark right under his arm so he’d find it if he stirred. John leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to the boy’s forehead, his hand resting briefly on Waylon’s hair.

​You reached over, clicked off the small shark-shaped lamp, and backed out of the room, closing the door until only a sliver of light remained.

​The moment the door clicked shut, the adrenaline finally evaporated. You and John shared a long, weary look in the hallway before trudging toward your own bedroom.

​The room was cool and inviting. Neither of you had the energy for a full nighttime routine. It was a clumsy, lazy dance of shed clothing—jeans kicked into a corner, shirts tossed toward the hamper, socks abandoned where they fell. Eventually, you were both down to your boxers, though John managed to snag a pair of discarded grey sweatpants from the armchair, sliding them on before collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy thump.

​You crawled in beside him, the cool sheets feeling like a miracle against your tired skin. You didn't even bother with the pillows at first; you just let your head sink into the mattress, letting out a long, jagged sigh.

​"I think my feet are actually vibrating," you groaned, closing your eyes.

​John didn't answer right away. He shifted, the bed dipping as he rolled onto his side to face you. He reached out, his hand finding your waist and pulling you across the gap until your legs tangled together. He looked exhausted—dark circles under his eyes and his hair a total disaster—but his expression was incredibly soft.

​"You were amazing today," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rumble in the quiet room.

​You cracked one eye open. "I was a human tripod for a six-year-old and a professional pancake flipper. Don't oversell it, Walker."

​"I'm serious," John said, ignoring your deflection. He moved his hand up, his thumb grazing the line of your jaw. "Watching you with him….seeing the way you look at him, like he’s yours. It does something to me, babe. I didn't think I’d ever get to have this. This version of a life. With someone who actually wants to be in the trenches of parenthood with me."

​You felt a warmth spread through your chest that had nothing to do with the blankets. You reached up, catching his hand and lacing your fingers through his. "Don't go getting all sappy on me now. I’ve got a reputation to uphold as the 'cool, collected' one."

​John chuckled, but he didn't break eye contact. "Too late. I've already seen you carry a stuffed shark through a parking lot. Your reputation is toast."

​You smiled, finally giving in and pulling his hand to your lips to kiss his knuckles. "I love the kid, John. I wouldn't have it any other way. He’s a pain in the ass, just like his dad, but….he’s my family. You both are."

​John leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours. The intensity of his gaze was gone, replaced by a quiet, settled peace. "Good. Because he’s already asking when we can go to the dinosaur museum."

​You let out a genuine laugh, the sound muffled by the duvet. "Next month, John. We need at least thirty days of recovery before I deal with a T-Rex."

​"Copy that," John whispered, kissing you deeply—a slow, tired, and perfect kiss that tasted like home.

​As you drifted off to sleep, tucked securely into the curve of John’s body, the last thing you thought about wasn't the military, or the missions, or the weight of the world. It was the fact that tomorrow morning, you’d probably be woken up by a six-year-old telling you a fact about Megalodons.