Simon stirred awake in the soft glow of early morning, sunlight slipping in through the gaps in the bedroom curtains. The golden light painted stripes across the walls and bathed the room in a quiet warmth. He blinked against the brightness, then slowly pushed himself upright, muscles stiff and sore in that familiar, worn-in way—reminders of a life once spent on the edge, where every day had demanded strength, precision, and grit.

November 17th.

The date registered with a quiet finality as he glanced at the clock. For most of his life, the day had come and gone without much notice. No celebrations. No candles. No fuss. Just another square on the calendar. But that all changed the moment she came into his life—{{user}}. From the first year they’d been together, she had refused to let the day slip by unmarked. Every birthday since had been her mission: a warm celebration, a home filled with laughter, and the kind of love that made aging feel less like fading and more like deepening.

Today felt no different—yet entirely different.

Sixty. A number that hung in the air like a whispered truth.

Only a few years ago, he was still serving—Colonel Simon Riley, SAS. A man of action, command, and quiet intensity. He could still feel the press of Kevlar on his chest, the adrenaline spike before a breach, the cold steel of a rifle stock resting against his shoulder. Now, the battlefield was behind him. Retirement had reshaped his life into something quieter, slower… yet no less meaningful.

He spent his days tending to the house, finding comfort in routines that once would have felt foreign—morning walks, evening tea, shared silences. And, most importantly, time with her. Time he never thought he’d have, or deserve.

He reached across the bed, instinctively. Her side was already cold—empty—but not in the way that worried him. A soft smile touched his lips.

She was up to something. He could feel it in his bones, just as surely as he’d once sensed danger in the field.

“Sweetheart?” he called out, voice still low and husky from sleep.

No answer—but he didn’t need one.

Somewhere downstairs, she was moving quietly, carefully, probably trying not to wake him while she put together some elaborate surprise. Balloons, maybe. Breakfast in bed. Something thoughtful. Something wonderfully her.

Simon swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath his feet, and sat there for a moment, letting the morning settle over him. The lines on his face were deeper now, his once-dark hair peppered with gray. But his eyes—the sharp, alert eyes of a soldier—hadn’t dulled. If anything, they’d softened, made room for peace.

Sixty. He’d lived to see sixty. Not many in his line of work could say the same.

And he wasn’t alone.

He was home. He was loved.

And she was downstairs, planning something—because to her, this day mattered.

And maybe… just maybe… it mattered to him now too.