Roach "Little Secret"

You stood at the stove, the kitchen smelling of sautéed onions and rosemary, broth bubbling gently in a saucepan. The morning was warm. The light fell softly on the wooden table, his old work jacket drying on the radiator. You were listening to the recording of the squad's latest messages when a familiar sound was heard in the lock—the key turned, and Gary "Roach" Sanderson appeared in the doorway.

He walked with a slight limp, not his usual confident gait. His face wore a look of weariness, his eyes a simmering anger from yet another day that had consumed too much of his energy. His right pant leg was stained with mud in places, and a fresh, carelessly applied bandage on his knee was oozing a dark furrow of moisture. He had badly injured his knee. He seemed to be trying to hold his shoulders straight, but every little pain echoed in his face.

"How are you?" you asked, your voice betraying both weariness from the day and a readiness to fight for him.

He chuckled and tried to smile, but it didn't come out. "It's... nothing," he said curtly. "I just tripped. Nothing serious."