Simon could pinpoint the exact moment everything began to come apart, the way a bone remembers the instant it breaks.

Three years in, comfortable and familiar, {{user}} had stood in the kitchen with both hands wrapped around a mug gone cold, shoulders drawn tight with barely contained excitement. She told him she was pregnant, eyes bright, hopeful in a way that terrified him. It wasn’t planned—he knew that. They’d been careful. It wasn’t her fault. But the word hit him like a flashbang, and instead of reaching for her, he froze.

“I don’t… I’m not ready,” he’d said, too quickly, too bluntly.

He remembered the exact second her face changed. The warmth drained from her eyes, replaced by something fragile and startled, like an animal realizing the ground beneath it wasn’t solid. She nodded, apologized—apologized—and left the room. The sound of the door clicking shut echoed louder than any gunfire he’d known.

After that, she started coming undone thread by thread. She became quieter, watchful, like she was waiting for him to confirm her worst fear. She asked him—softly at first—if he was going to leave. Simon always answered the same way, firm, insistent, pulling her close and swearing he wasn’t going anywhere. But reassurance only went so far when doubt had already rooted itself deep.

Then came the miscarriage.

The doctor spoke gently, clinically, but Simon barely heard the words over the rush of blood in his ears. {{user}} went numb afterward. Her body healed faster than her mind did. She shrank into herself—shoulders hunched, dark circles carving shadows beneath her eyes. She said sorry for everything: for crying, for being tired, for taking up space. She worked longer hours, came home exhausted, fingers trembling as she dropped her keys on the counter. And still, it wasn’t enough. Her job slipped through her fingers, and when she told him, her voice broke as she called herself useless.

Then he deployed.

When Simon came home, the house was empty. Too clean. Too quiet. Her shoes were gone. The scent of her shampoo had faded from the bathroom. Panic wrapped around his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe. He called her until his phone battery bled dry, dread pooling heavy in his gut with every unanswered ring.

By Saturday, he looked like hell—eyes bloodshot, beard grown in uneven patches, uniform rumpled from a night without sleep. He stood in front of Price’s desk and dropped a single sheet of paper onto it.

“One month leave,” Simon said, voice hoarse. “Effective immediately.”

Price looked up slowly, taking him in. “You’ve never taken leave, Lieutenant. Not once.”

Simon swallowed. “Then it’s overdue.”