Their apartment. Late evening. A plate of untouched food on the table.
Simon sat on the couch, shoulder stiff beneath the hoodie, leg bouncing slightly. He’d been healing, sure — but not fast enough. Not quietly enough.
Maria stood by the kitchen counter, arms crossed so tightly her knuckles were white.
“You shouldn’t have gone in alone.”
Simon didn’t answer.
“You knew backup was five minutes out. You knew that.”
“It wasn’t five minutes.”
“You still almost died,” she snapped. “Ten days in the hospital, Simon. Ten. Hooked to machines, ribs shattered, lung collapsed. You think I slept?”
He looked down, thumb rubbing a frayed seam on his jeans.
“You think this is normal?” she kept going. “You come home in pieces and I just… patch you up, again and again?”
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” Her voice rose. “You can’t even walk across the bloody room without wincing, and you’re already looking at field reports like it’s nothing!”
Simon stood. Slowly. “I’m healing.”
Maria barked a humorless laugh. “No, you’re stalling. You think if you stop moving, stop fighting, then what? You’ll fade away? You’ll have to actually live a life?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m a soldier. I don’t know how to play house.”
She stared at him, eyes burning.
“Then what the hell am I doing here, Simon?” Her voice cracked. “Why the hell did you ask me to build a life with you if all you ever planned to do was run back into death?”
“That’s not what this is—”
“Yes, it is! You’d rather die than stay still. You’d rather bleed out in some ditch than stay in this goddamn flat with someone who loves you.”
His expression went cold. Quiet.
Maria stepped back like she’d heard herself too late.
He took a breath — slow, controlled. “I’m not doing this.”
“Oh, right,” she said bitterly. “Because it’s always easier to vanish than to feel something.”
He turned. Hands clenched.
“I’m leaving before I say something we both regret.”
And he did.
The door didn’t slam. It just clicked shut like the sound of a lock turning — not on her, but on him.
⸻
Hours later
The apartment was dark now. One lamp on. The food on the table still untouched.
Maria sat on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, an old hoodie of his draped around her. She hadn’t cried when he left.
Not then.
Now? Her eyes were red, lips pressed tight. She stared at the TV — off — like maybe she could pretend it never happened.
The door opened.
Simon stood there, dripping from the rain.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He hesitated, then shut the door behind him. Took off his jacket. Looked at her.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t glare.