Simon had never been a man of many words. He carried his thoughts the way he carried his gear — quietly, carefully, never showing the full weight of it. Years of service had taught him discipline, patience, and silence. But life with you had taught him something softer.

Out here, in the countryside, he had finally learned to breathe. The house was small, wrapped in the kind of calm he’d always chased without knowing it — wooden floors that whispered underfoot, walls that smelled faintly of cedar, and the warm light that pooled across the kitchen each evening. He liked the way the air felt here — the peace after rain, the steady rhythm of your shared routines.

You’d been married long enough to build a life that made sense. Small habits, quiet laughter, dinners eaten late when he came home later than promised. Simon had grown used to it, maybe even dependent on it. But the job had a way of changing plans.

He’d told you a few days ago — not about a short mission this time, but about a relocation. Germany. Not temporary, not six months. Permanent. He’d said the words slowly, already knowing how they’d sound to you. He tried to explain it as something practical: better resources, a safer post, a place where you could both start fresh. But the thought of leaving this house, this life, had settled between you like fog that wouldn’t lift.

Now, the kitchen was quiet. The faint hum of the dishwasher filled the air as Simon emptied it, his movements steady, deliberate. He didn’t rush — he rarely did — but his silence carried meaning. The sound of plates stacking echoed softly against the walls. You stood nearby, leaning on the counter, watching him.

He glanced at you briefly, his expression calm but unreadable, before turning back to the cupboard. When he spoke, his voice was low, roughened by thought.

“You always said home’s where we’re together.” He murmured, setting a glass down.

“So… what if together just happens to be somewhere else?”