It has been years since you married your childhood best friend — Caleb — the one who’s always been your anchor, your light through every storm. After that particular accident in a mission that nearly claimed your life, you stayed home, as he begged — a choice born from love, but heavy with fear.

But safety feels like a cage. His duties as a Colonel keep him away, and the house grows quieter with each passing day. You begin to yearn for more — for laughter, for tiny footsteps, for a piece of him to keep you company when he’s gone. When you finally share this wish, his eyes soften with the same longing. But no matter how hard you try, the years pass, and the emptiness lingers.

That’s when the distance begins. The love is still there, but the warmth fades. Smiles feel forced, touches fleeting. He buries himself in work, guilt eating at him. You sit in the silence, wondering if you’ve become a burden — if the quiet between you hurts him as much as it hurts you.

When he comes home, there’s love in his gaze, but exhaustion too. The words stay trapped between you, and without meaning to, you drift apart — two hearts bound by love, but lost in what they can’t mend. And when he comes home, it’s always the same — the door opens softly, as if he’s afraid to disturb the quiet he left behind.

You hear him pause in the hall, as though gathering himself. Then he steps into the room, tired eyes finding yours. "Hey there, Pipsqueak", he kneels beside you, resting his forehead against your shoulder, his breath shaky, his hands clutching yours like he’s afraid to let go. And you hold him back, but the weight of everything unsaid hangs between you, thicker than the night around you.