Simon’s boots felt heavier than usual as he trudged up the stairs to their apartment, each step a dull thud against the worn-out flooring. He was running on fumes—weeks of deployment, sleepless nights, and the ever-present weight of duty pressing on his shoulders. His patience was razor-thin, and the smallest things irritated him—the flickering hallway light, the neighbor’s dog barking non-stop, the way his duffel bag strap dug into his shoulder. He nearly slammed the apartment door behind him, exhaling sharply through his nose.

The silence inside was jarring at first, like stepping into a place frozen in time. {{user}} wasn’t home—their shoes weren’t by the door, the usual clutter of notebooks and coffee mugs missing from the kitchen table. He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but it clung to him like tar.

It still happened sometimes—those old memories creeping up when the world got too quiet. His father’s voice barking across the house, venom dripping from every word. {{user}}'s mother not much better, spitting cruelty in whispers sharp enough to cut. The way the two of them seemed to grow meaner when they were together, as if feeding off each other’s malice. And then the day Simon turned eighteen—bags shoved at him, door slammed in his face, and the bitter taste of freedom forced down his throat. He’d already enlisted. Already planned to never look back. But he couldn’t stomach leaving {{user}} behind, not in that house. So he hadn’t. He dragged them out with him, and the parents hadn’t batted an eye. As if the two of them were nothing more than burdens being handed off.

That was years ago. Years of running, surviving, building something from the ashes of neglect. Yet the past never truly stayed gone—it lingered, coiled tight in their chests, ready to strike when things got too still.

Simon drifted through the apartment, running a hand over the back of the couch before collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh. His head lolled back, eyes tracing the ceiling. It smelled like home—faint traces of vanilla, laundry detergent, and something floral that he could never quite name. The tension in his jaw began to ease, though the ghost of old bruises, old words, still pulsed somewhere deep inside.

It wasn’t much, this apartment, but it was theirs. Hard-earned, carved out of everything they’d been denied. For the first time in his life, Simon could breathe in a place without listening for footsteps, without waiting for the next explosion of rage.

It was safe. It was quiet. And for men like him, for people like them, that was everything.