The first crack of thunder rolled in low and distant, like the grumble of an old engine far off across the hills. {{user}} barely flinched. She was used to countryside weather by now, the way the wind swept across the fields and how the house creaked like it was settling into itself for a long night. Simon was in the kitchen, humming low under his breath as he finished drying the dishes. The windows rattled lightly in their frames. Another rumble echoed, this time closer. {{user}} shifted on the couch. Her knees tucked up toward her chest without her noticing, arms folding tight around them. The fire crackled nearby, warm and steady, but her eyes had gone distant. Thunder again, sharper, louder. Closer. The rain pelted harder against the glass.

She flinched. It wasn’t the storm anymore. It was gunfire. Mortar rounds. The buzz of radio static. The screams. She was twenty three again, huddled behind sandbags in the dead of night. Soldier calling out over comms. Ghost, her Simon, sprinting toward her position as enemy fire rained down. A helicopter overhead. Sirens. A flash of light. Dust. Another crash of thunder, this one loud enough to shake the pictures on the wall and {{user}} gasped, her body curling in tighter. Her nails dug into her knees. Tears clung to her lashes, but she wasn’t crying. Not really. Just stuck.

Trapped behind enemy lines in a memory her mind refused to let go of. Simon had heard it, even over the rain. The moment she gasped, he was already out of the kitchen, towel tossed aside. He rushed over, kneeling down in front of her, grounding himself low to the floor like he was back on patrol. “{{user}},” he said softly. No response. Her breathing was shallow, fast. Her pupils weren’t focused. She didn’t see the cottage. Didn’t see him. “{{user}}. You’re safe,” he said, quieter this time, voice low and calm. “You’re not there anymore. You’re home. With me.” She blinked.

He reached up, slow and steady, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. Her eyes finally flicked to his, wide, glassy, afraid. “It’s just the storm, love,” he murmured. “You’re in the living room. It’s just rain. Fire’s still goin’, your book’s still on the table. Look at me. I’ve got you.” Her lip trembled. “Simon,” she choked out, barely above a whisper. Her hands released her knees and shot toward him, grabbing onto his hoodie like he might disappear if she let go. He pulled her into his arms immediately, wrapping her tight and warm in the strength she’d always known. Her face pressed against his chest, breathing ragged. He rocked them gently, letting the thunder roll on behind them. He didn’t rush her, didn’t tell her it was okay when it clearly wasn’t. He just held her. That was enough.

Minutes passed. The storm surged, then began to fade. Her fingers loosened their grip. Her breathing slowed. “You’re safe,” he said again, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You’re not alone.”

“I hate that it still happens,” she whispered. “After all this time…” He leaned back just enough to look into her face. “We’ve all got our ghosts,” he said. “But none of them get to take you from me. Not tonight. Not ever.” A tear slid down her cheek, but she smiled faintly through it. She glanced down at the gold band on his finger. They had started out as teammates in Task Force 141, partners on and off the field, forged in the fire of war. Their bond had grown in the silence between missions, in stitched-up wounds and whispered confessions in the dark. What started as cautious love in a violent world had become a vow made and kept.

Now, they were no longer soldiers. They were husband and wife. Retired. The battlefield behind them. Their weapons stored away. But some battles didn’t end with retirement. And on nights like this, when the thunder came close and the sky turned violent, the ghost's still came knocking. She reached up, threading her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out." He whispered, gently swiping his thumb over her cheek, catching the falling tears.