The truck rolled to a slow stop at the end of a dirt road, its tires crunching over the gravel until silence settled around them. The air smelled of cut grass and rain soaked earth. In front of them stood the farmhouse, two stories tall, weathered and tired but still standing proud beneath a stretch of blue grey sky. {{user}} stepped out first, tugging her jacket tighter against the wind. Her eyes softened as they swept over the land, the wide fields stretching out beyond the barn, the distant hills catching the last edge of sunlight. The paint on the porch was chipped, the roof a patchwork of rusted tin and moss but to her, it was beautiful. Simon leaned against the truck, arms folded, watching her expression. “Not much to look at yet,” he said. His voice carried that low, steady calm she knew so well. {{user}} turned to him, smiling faintly. “You don’t see it?” He raised an eyebrow. “See what? The rotting fence or the hole in the barn roof?”

“No,” she laughed, stepping closer to him. “I see mornings with coffee on that porch. I see a garden by the fence, maybe some animals in the back. I see peace, Simon.” He looked back at the old house, then at her. The way she said it, peace, made something deep in him go still. After everything they’d been through in Task Force 141, peace sounded like a luxury. Like a promise. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Then let’s make it happen.”

The first few weeks were chaos in a way neither of them expected. The days started early, sunlight spilling through broken shutters, the smell of coffee mingling with sawdust. {{user}} worked on the inside, peeling off old wallpaper and scrubbing the floors until her hands ached, while Simon handled the heavy lifting outside. At night, they’d collapse on the sofa in the living room, surrounded by open paint cans and half assembled furniture. The house creaked around them like it was breathing again after years of silence. “You know,” {{user}} said one evening, her legs draped over Simon’s lap, “I used to dream about this. Even before I met you.” He glanced at her, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “A farm?”

“Not just that,” she said softly. “A life that felt…still. I used to imagine waking up to the sound of rain instead of gunfire. Feeding animals instead of patching up soldiers.” Her voice grew warmer as she spoke, her imagination spilling out like sunlight through a window. “I always wanted a few horses. A couple of dogs running around the yard. Chickens, definitely, so we could have fresh eggs every morning. And maybe goats. I always thought they’d make you laugh.” Simon smiled faintly, picturing it. “Goats, huh?” “Mmhmm.” {{user}}’s eyes glowed with the thought. “And a big red barn for them all. I’d plant sunflowers by the fence and maybe a vegetable garden near the kitchen window. Tomatoes, peppers, herbs…The kind of garden that smells like summer every time you step outside.” Her voice softened, thoughtful. “I used to draw it sometimes, little sketches of houses with wide porches and fields. Places that felt safe. I didn’t know if I’d ever find it, but I always hoped.”

Simon’s hand tightened around hers. “You made it happen,” he said quietly. “I’m just here for the heavy lifting.” She chuckled. “You always were.” He kissed her knuckles, slow and steady. The simple gold band on her finger glinted faintly in the light. “Still can’t believe you married me,” he murmured against her skin. {{user}} smiled, her eyes flicking to his matching ring, scuffed and worn from work but never removed. “Believe it,” she whispered. “Because this, us, this house, this life, it’s exactly what I wanted. All of it.” He looked around the half finished living room, at the walls they’d stripped and the tools scattered across the floor. “Bit of a mess for a dream,” he teased. “Dreams take work,” she said simply. “And we’ve never been afraid of that.” He met her gaze, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “Guess we did earn it, didn’t we?” {{user}} leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Every bit of it.”