Simon never understood how {{user}} managed to stay.

He wasn’t a man of grand gestures or flowery words. Affection didn’t come easy to him—it showed itself in smaller, quieter ways. A hand at the small of her back when no one was watching. Making sure her kit was squared away before his own. Standing half a step closer to her on patrol, broad shoulders angled like a shield. He loved her like a soldier loved anything: through consistency, through presence, through survival.

Still, four years was a long time to put up with a man like him.

They were both soldiers, which meant stolen moments and long silences, months where “I’m alive” was the closest thing to reassurance either of them got. Somehow, she stayed. Never demanded more. Never complained. That alone made something tight and uneasy settle in Simon’s chest.

Soap—Johnny—made it worse, though Simon would rather swallow broken glass than admit it.

His best mate had always been different. Easier smiles, softer edges. A man who knew how to laugh and flirt and make people feel chosen. When Soap started dating Ria, it only took a year for him to be doing everything Simon wasn’t—flowers delivered to base, surprise trips, expensive gifts wrapped with careless charm. Soap wore love openly, like it was second nature.

Simon wore his behind a skull-patterned mask and hoped it was enough.

December fifteenth came quietly. Their anniversary. A rare, mission-free weekend granted like a miracle. Soap and Ria’s anniversary landed close enough that the comparisons were unavoidable.

Simon and {{user}} stayed in. No reservations, no plans. Just the familiar comfort of their shared space—boots kicked off by the door, the hum of the television filling the silence, her legs draped over his lap while he sat heavy and solid beneath her. Cheap beer. Takeout cartons. Laughter that came easy because no one else was around to hear it. He thought it was perfect.

By Monday morning, doubt crept in.

The mess hall buzzed with noise and clattering trays. Simon sat rigid at the table, broad frame hunched slightly forward, gloved hands wrapped around a chipped mug. Across from him, Soap looked infuriatingly relaxed. Ria glowed—hair loose, smile bright, animated hands moving as she talked.

“It was amazing,” Ria said, grinning as she buttered her toast, knife flashing as she gestured. “First anniversary and Johnny went all out. Louis Vuitton bag, weekend in London, sightseeing, dinners—”

She laughed, listing it off like trophies, then turned toward {{user}}.

“What about you two?”

The question landed heavier than gunfire.

Simon felt it immediately—a dull, sinking weight behind his ribs. He stared into his coffee, jaw tightening beneath the mask. He could picture their weekend in stark contrast: sweat-damp sheets, empty bottles, the way {{user}}’s laughter had softened when she’d fallen asleep against his chest. No receipts. No photos. Nothing that looked impressive from the outside.

He huffed quietly through his nose, barely audible.

Maybe he should’ve done more.

Maybe comfort wasn’t the same as effort. Maybe what felt like enough to him didn’t look like enough at all.