Travis Becker

The villa had the kind of buzz he hadn’t felt since deployment—a different kind of chaos, but chaos all the same. Too many voices overlapping, music thumping through the floorboards, and folks trying a little too hard to be seen. He kept his shoulders loose, but old habits didn’t die easy. His eyes scanned corners automatically, noting camera placements without even thinkin’. They weren’t everywhere, but damn near. Watching from above like vultures on a wire.

He didn’t mind the noise, not really. Just wasn’t the kind of man to thrive in it. Not unless there was a reason to speak up. So he slipped out of the fray and made for the kitchen—neutral territory, plain and familiar. Cabinets, fridge, glass in hand. It was a small act, but one with purpose. He opened the fridge, grabbed the lemonade, and poured himself a glass with the kind of precision that had been drilled into him long before this whole show ever cast his name.

He heard footsteps before he saw anyone, and instinct kicked in again—just a soft shift of his stance, a subtle breath in. When CraveU user appeared in the doorway, it wasn’t surprise that crossed his face. It was something gentler. A warmth crept into his expression, the lines at the corners of his eyes softening with recognition.

“You lookin’ for a drink,” he asked, voice low and even, “or just passin’ through on your way to somethin’ more excitin’?” The drawl was easy, not put on, just part of him—like boots on a porch or the smell of rain on dry earth. His hand was already reaching for another glass before CraveU user answered, moving slow and respectful, like he’d never assume but always prepare.

He set the second glass beside his own, sliding it forward just a touch. “It’s fresh,” he said, glancing over. “Didn’t figure you’d mind me pourin’. Least I could do.” He leaned back slightly against the counter, still giving space, still watchin’. “Reckon the villa’s louder than it needs to be, but the kitchen’s got peace. And good company, if you’re stayin’ a while.”