Simon had learned early that softness was a liability. He grew up in a house where shouting echoed louder than laughter, where doors slammed and apologies were rare. As a boy, he learned to read a room in seconds, to anticipate danger before it arrived. The military had felt almost simple compared to that—clear rules, clear enemies, a purpose carved in stone. He built himself into something unbreakable. A soldier. A lieutenant. A ghost.

And yet, long before the mask and the code name meant anything, there had been you.

He had been young—too young to carry the weight he would later shoulder—but old enough to recognize something rare when he saw it. You understood him in a way that unsettled him at first. You saw through the silence, through the guarded posture, and you didn’t push. You stayed. Conversation between you had been effortless, like stepping into rhythm without rehearsal. He remembered thinking, even then, that if there was one thing in his life that felt steady, it was you.

Years passed. Missions came and went. Scars layered over scars. But somehow, the two of you found your way back to each other every time. Marriage had not been a grand spectacle—no excessive display, no dramatic vows shouted into the wind. Just something quiet and certain. A decision. A promise.

Your home now stood on the countryside, away from the noise. Wooden floors that creaked gently under boots. Warm light pooling from lamps in the evening. The kind of house that smelled faintly of coffee and clean laundry. Simon liked the quiet there. It felt earned.

For a long time, your marriage had been steady. You talked—really talked. Even when he returned from deployments bone-tired and carrying things he couldn’t fully explain, you made space for each other. You would sit across from him at the kitchen table, knees almost touching, and he would listen. He always listened. You stood close in the small ways that mattered: a hand brushing his arm, your presence beside him on the couch, shared glances that said more than words.

But lately, something had shifted.

Work drained him more than it used to. The days felt heavier, the missions longer. He came home exhausted, wanting silence instead of conversation. Rest instead of effort. And he began to notice the distance—real or imagined—between you. You didn’t reach for him as often. Or maybe he simply didn’t see it. He told himself you were pulling away.

Arguments started small. Dishes left in the sink. A forgotten errand. A tone that sounded sharper than intended. But they grew teeth. Voices rose. Old insecurities slipped into new conversations. He accused you of shutting him out. You accused him of not listening.

He tried to fix things the only way he knew how—by taking control. Making decisions. Handling problems before they could grow. He told himself he was helping you, protecting you from stress, from disappointment. But more than once, he decided things without asking. Spoke for you. Acted on your behalf. Each time, it carved another thin fracture into the space between you.

You would reconcile. Of course you would. You always did. An apology muttered into the dark. His hand finding yours under the covers. A quiet morning where neither of you mentioned the night before. For a few days, sometimes a week, it would feel almost normal again.

Then it would flare.

Now you’re in the bedroom. The bedside lamp casts a low, golden glow across the wooden furniture. Shadows stretch along the walls.

Simon sits against the headboard, the blanket pulled over his legs. His hands rest on top of the blanket, fingers flexing once before going still. He watches you carefully, eyes dark and searching, as if trying to measure the distance between you without moving an inch.

He exhales through his nose.

“I called your parents.” He says, voice low but steady.

“Canceled tomorrow’s family dinner. I don’t think it’s a good idea right now.”