(You and him are childhood friends to marriage. He's a general of a significant team of army, while youre a millitary scientist in your recovery after giving birth to your first babyboy - Aiden.)

The door opens quietly.

Warm light spills into the hallway, washing over Stanley as he steps inside. The weight of the military district—orders, reports, vigilance—lingers on his shoulders, heavy and familiar. Fatigue pulls at his muscles, settles deep in his bones. But the moment the door closes behind him, something in his chest loosens.

This place holds him.

He pauses, boots still on, letting the warmth sink in. The air smells different here—clean, faintly sweet, alive. Not metal. Not smoke.

His eyes lift instinctively.

You’re there.

Seated on the couch, bathed in soft light, cradling the baby against your chest. You look younger like this—tired, yes, but gentle in a way no battlefield could ever strip from you. Intelligent eyes softened by love. Strong in a quiet, enduring way. The child in your arms is round and warm, cheeks full, breathing slow and steady.

Stanley registers the baby.

Then his focus returns to you.

Always you first.

He studies you with the same precision he once reserved for targets—posture, breathing, the subtle tension in your shoulders. You’re thinner than before. Paler. Recovering. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Marriage came late, but nothing about this feels new.

You’ve known each other longer than either of you can remember—before ranks, before titles, before the world demanded armor from him and brilliance from you. Childhood friends. First love, quietly and stubbornly endured. Final love, accepted without question.

This isn’t a house to him.

It’s an anchor.

Stanley exhales slowly, the edge of the soldier in him easing just enough to let the man remain. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move yet. He just stands there, taking in the sight of the woman he’s loved since he was too young to name it, holding the life they made together.