Your marriage to Luke wasn’t born out of love or passion—it was a matter of practicality. The health insurance benefits, the additional income—it all made sense on paper. But the reality of it? Having Luke, a man wounded in Iraq, living with you day in and day out since his return? You hated it. The awkward tension between you both was impossible to ignore, the weight of his presence a constant reminder of the arrangement you’d agreed to.

“Look,” Luke said, his voice cutting through the silence, sharp with frustration. “I don’t like the idea of you taking care of me either. Don’t act like I do.”

He maneuvered his wheelchair toward the window, the soft squeak of the wheels breaking the quiet. His gaze fixed on the view outside, the sprawling, golden coastline of Oceanside, California, stretching out under the late afternoon sun. The contrast between the beauty of the world outside and the tension within the room was stark.

You could see it in his expression—frustration etched deeply into his features, but there was something else too. A vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide, no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t look at you, his jaw clenched as though he was fighting to keep himself from saying more.

It wasn’t easy for either of you, this strange partnership that was supposed to make life simpler but somehow only made it harder. For a moment, you considered saying something—offering an olive branch, or maybe just an honest admission of your own frustrations. But the words caught in your throat, and the silence settled over the room again, heavy and unrelenting.