Simon had never been meant for softness.

His childhood carved that out of him early—fear, violence, silence where there should have been safety. He learned to endure before he learned to trust. By the time he became a soldier, it felt inevitable.

His body told the story better than words ever could—scars across his torso, old injuries that never fully healed, pain he carried like second nature. Men like him weren’t built for quiet lives. They weren’t built to be husbands.

He had buried that thought long ago.

But then he met you.

It started slowly. Woth careful conversations. You never wanted to meet in crowded places, never agreed to anything public. Always quiet cafés, secluded walks, places where no one looked twice.

Simon noticed. Of course he did. But he didn’t question it. He simply adapted.

By the fourth date, the answer came on its own.

A young girl approached you—nervous, excited—asking for a photo. You hesitated only briefly before giving her a soft, practiced smile. And Simon… recognized it.

Not from you. From the city.

Your face on posters. Large ones. Impossible to miss once you knew.

You weren’t just a ballerina.

You were the most well-known ballerina in all of England.

Ballet had never been his world. He had never given it a second thought. But it was yours.

And Simon loved you. So he learned.

He sat through performances without distraction, watched rehearsals in silence, stood at the edges of studios where mirrors reflected things most people never noticed. At first, it was just movement.

Then it became something else.

Agony, wrapped in elegance.

He saw ankles give—just slightly—before correcting. Saw the tension in muscles held too long. Saw the way dancers landed without sound, even when their bodies screamed otherwise.

It was brutal.

Not loud like war. But controlled.

Simon understood pain. He had lived in it, breathed through it, seen it in the eyes of his men.

But he had never seen pain look… beautiful.

After your wedding, the two of you left the city behind. A house in the countryside. Quiet. Private. No expectations waiting outside the door.

It suited both of you.

He respected your work. More than that—he understood what it demanded of you. The discipline. The control. The sacrifices.

But he was skeptical.

Because he also saw what it did to you.

The injuries you downplayed. Blood staining the inside of your shoes. Ankles wrapped tighter each week. And the diets—strict, relentless, necessary.

He understood why. But that didn’t mean he liked it.

If you ever gave him the permission, he would have broken your instructor’s jaw without hesitation.

But you didn’t. So he held back.

Today was different.

Swan Lake.

He knew exactly what this performance had cost you. Had seen the hours turn into exhaustion, the exhaustion turn into pain, and the pain turn into something you carried without complaint.

You had trained until the ribbons of your shoes cut into your skin. Until they left marks. Until they bled.

And still—you kept going.

Because this mattered.

If you succeeded tonight, doors would open. International stages. A future you had dreamed about since you were a child.

At home, everything was prepared. Food ready for when you returned. Cold drinks waiting. Gel set aside. Towels chilled carefully, placed where you wouldn’t have to look for them.

Practical things.

Now he sat in the front row.

A suit instead of combat gear. Still, it didn’t soften him. His posture remained straight, unmoving, eyes fixed on the stage as the lights began to dim.

The theatre quieted.

Then— Music.

Tchaikovsky.

Familiar now, even if he would never admit it.

The first notes filled the space, heavy with something he couldn’t name but had learned to recognize in you. Anticipation. Pressure. Everything building toward this moment.

Simon’s gaze sharpened. The curtain began to rise.

And for the first time that evening, something almost unnoticeable shifted in his expression.

Not doubt. Not fear. Something closer to pride.

His voice, low and steady, barely above a breath.

“…Show them."