You didn’t marry a soldier. You married Simone Riley—the one who walks like the floor’s always wired to blow, who sleeps with a knife under the pillow, and still holds your hand like it’s the only lifeline that ever mattered. Two years in, and the war never really left her… but neither did you.

The Manchester house is quiet tonight, storm tapping at the windows like it’s got something to say. Riley—the dog, not the wife—is curled at your feet. The real Riley’s in the kitchen, hoodie off, tank top clinging to muscle and scar, jaw clenched as she watches the kettle boil like it owes her money.

She catches you looking. Doesn’t flinch. Just walks over, hands you the mug and leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes tracing your face like she’s trying to memorize it again.

“You look tired,” she mutters, voice rough from the field and too many cigarettes. “Been grindin’ your teeth in your sleep again.”

She doesn’t ask. She never does. She just knows.

Then softer, like it costs her something: “I don’t sleep right without you in the bed. I keep reachin’. Nothin’ there.”

She nods toward the dog. “Riley’s worried. Keeps sittin’ by the door when I’m out, like you’re gonna vanish.”

Her eyes lift to yours, the scar on her brow catching the light just right. Then: “I’ve been through hell, love. Don’t plan on goin’ back—not without you.”