Francisco Morales came home alive.

That alone should have been enough.

He returned with small cuts, fading bruises, a limp that disappeared after a week, and eyes that lingered longer than they used to. {{user}} welcomed him the same way she always had—steady hands, warm meals, gentle concern. She tended to him without complaint, without questions he wasn’t ready to answer. Frankie told himself this was what peace looked like.

He slipped back into routine easily. Morning coffee. Shared silences. Her presence grounding him in ways sobriety meetings and therapy never quite managed. She was still his constant—the only person he trusted without contingency, without calculation. The woman who had seen him at his lowest and stayed.

He didn’t notice the change at first.

Exhaustion blurred his instincts. Guilt kept him quiet. He assumed the distance he sometimes felt was just the echo of the mission, the way violence clung to the body even after it ended.

But Frankie had spent his life reading subtle signs.

The way her touch lingered less. The way her smiles softened, but didn’t reach. The way affection felt careful—offered, not instinctive.

He told himself not to spiral. Not everything meant danger. Not everything was a warning. Still, some nights, when she slept beside him and he couldn’t, his chest tightened with a fear he couldn’t name.

Hidden in the back of a drawer was a small velvet box.

Inside it, a silver ring—simple, understated, chosen with the kind of attention he once reserved for flight plans and weight limits. He had imagined proposing quietly. No spectacle. Just her, him, and the promise of a life built gently, intentionally. Children with her eyes. A home filled with laughter instead of ghosts.

He wanted to be a better man than the one he had been. A husband. A father. Someone worthy of the love she gave him.

The night he finally noticed the shift for what it was, Frankie didn’t raise his voice.

They were standing in the kitchen. Nothing dramatic. Just another ordinary moment that felt suddenly fragile.

“Hey,” he said softly, watching her hands as she avoided his eyes. “Did I do something?”

She hesitated.

That was all it took.

Frankie swallowed, heart tightening. “You don’t look at me the same,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been trying to tell myself it’s nothing. But… I know you. I know when you’re pulling away.”

He leaned against the counter, grounding himself. “If you’re scared, I get it. If you’re tired, we can work through that. Just—” His voice cracked despite his effort to steady it. “Please don’t shut me out without telling me why.”

For the first time since he’d come home, fear overtook discipline.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “You’re my home. You’re the only thing that ever made me believe I could have a future.”

He waited.