The change was so gradual that Simon didn’t even notice when it started.

At some point, the feeling he used to have for {{user}}—that steady warmth in his chest when he came home and saw her waiting for him—just… disappeared. There wasn’t a fight, there wasn’t betrayal, there wasn’t a clear moment where things broke. It simply faded.

For years he had been certain she was the right person. The one constant in a life that was otherwise filled with chaos, violence, and long deployments. {{user}} had always been patient with him, always quiet, always understanding when he came home distant and tired.

But now everything she did seemed to irritate him.

The way she asked if he had eaten. The way she waited up for him. The way she tried to keep the house warm and welcoming.

He hated himself a little for thinking it, but the truth was simple in his mind: she felt like a responsibility he never asked for.

And tonight, everything in him was already on edge.

⸻

It was late when Simon finally got home.

Past midnight.

The house was quiet except for the faint sound of the television humming in the living room. The lights were dim, warm yellow against the dark windows. {{user}} had clearly been waiting, though she had dozed off on the couch.

The sound of the door closing woke her immediately.

“Love” she said softly, rubbing her eyes as she stood up. “Finally..”

He grunted in response, already pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto the chair near the door.

Long day. Too many problems. Too many people talking in his ear. The last thing he wanted was conversation.

But {{user}} was already moving toward the kitchen.

“I kept dinner for you,” she said. “I’ll heat it up.”

Simon didn’t answer. He just dropped into a chair at the table, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face.

Steam curled up from the plate. Beans, rice, and meat—something simple she had made earlier that evening.

Simon picked up the spoon and took one bite.

Then he immediately dropped the spoon back into the bowl with a sharp clatter.

His jaw tightened.

“What the hell is this.”

{{user}} blinked, confused.

“It’s… dinner. The beans I made earlier—”

“I don’t like beans,” Simon cut her off sharply.

His voice was already rough with irritation.

“You always ruin the food with this shit.”

{{user}} froze slightly.

“I thought you liked them,” she said quietly. “You ate them last week—”

“Because it was there,” he snapped. “Not because I wanted it.”

He pushed the bowl away from him, the ceramic scraping loudly across the table.

{{user}} stood across from him, hands clasped together like she wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“You didn’t tell me when you were coming home,” she said carefully. “I just made what we had.”

Simon let out a frustrated breath, leaning back in the chair.

“Yeah. Great. Fantastic.”

The sarcasm dripped from every word.

“You sit around all day and this is what I come home to.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the air changed.