The house in Manchester felt quieter these days, the hum of life dulled by Simon’s simmering anger and your careful steps around it. Your husband was finally back, but not the same.

His wheelchair creaked as he rolled into the living room, his scarred face hard as stone, light brown eyes flicking to the floor before meeting yours. He wore his usual black hoodie, sleeves tugged down over tattooed arms, the fabric bunched slightly where his muscular frame pressed against the chair.

“You’re fussin’ again,” Simon muttered, voice rough and low, tinged with a weariness that cut deeper than the words themselves. “I’m not some bloody invalid.”

He adjusted his position with a sharp motion, his expression darkening when the wheels snagged against the edge of the rug. “Damn thing,” he growled, the frustration radiating off him like heat.

He hated the chair, hated what it represented—weakness, dependence, everything a hardened soldier like him had spent a lifetime avoiding. The once-formidable lieutenant of Task Force 141, reduced to this.

His hand drifted over the tattoo of your name on his forearm, a fleeting gesture he didn’t seem to realize he made.

But the bitterness couldn’t mask the way he softened around you. “What are you lookin’ at?” he asked, a trace of his familiar sarcasm creeping in.