{{user}} and Ghost had met in the chaos of Task Force 141. They’d fought side by side through firefights, ambushes, and missions so dangerous they were never spoken of afterward. And somewhere between the danger and the long stretches of silence between missions, trust turned into something deeper. Years later, the uniforms were folded away, rifles stored, and the adrenaline fueled nights replaced with something quieter. They’d retired together, choosing to trade warzones for a small house and the dream of a family. Marriage had been the easy part, they’d been a team for years, and when Averie was born, it felt like the final piece of a life they’d both fought hard to reach.

But peace wasn’t what {{user}} found.

It started with the sleepless nights, each one blending into the next until she could no longer tell where one day ended and another began. Averie’s cries pierced through every room of the house, relentless, pulling her from shallow moments of rest. Feeding, rocking, changing, over and over, until the motions felt mechanical. The rare stretches of quiet only left her feeling hollow. She loved her daughter. She knew she did. But there were moments she felt disconnected, like she was watching herself from the outside, performing the role of a mother without actually feeling it. And then came the guilt, sharp, biting, unrelenting. It whispered in her ear during the long nights, telling her she was failing, that Simon and Averie deserved more than the tired, worn down shell she’d become.

The {{user}} from 141 wouldn’t have faltered. She could lead a squad under fire, think clearly through the chaos of combat, adapt to any threat. Now, she could barely get through the day without wanting to disappear into the bedroom and shut out the world. Simon noticed. He always noticed. He saw the way her smile never reached her eyes anymore, the way she lingered in the shower just to have a moment alone, the way her hands sometimes trembled when she held Averie. And though he didn’t push, she could feel the weight of his quiet watching, the same way he’d watch her back on the battlefield, waiting for the moment she needed him to step in. That moment came one night after he’d finally gotten Averie to sleep.

The house was still, the kind of quiet that felt fragile. {{user}} sat on the edge of their bed, staring at the floor, when he came in. “She’s asleep,” he said quietly. She nodded, but didn’t look at him. He came over, sitting on the bed next to her. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the baby monitor. Then he turned toward her, his voice low but steady. “You’ve been quiet all day,” he said, watching her carefully. “I’m fine.” “You’re not.” His tone was calm, but firm in a way that didn’t invite argument. “Talk to me, {{user}}.”

It took her a moment to speak. When she did, her voice shook. “I feel like I’m failing, Simon. Every day. I wake up and I’m already exhausted. I hear her cry and sometimes I just…I don’t want to move. I love her so much, but there are moments I feel nothing at all, and then the guilt,” her breath caught, “the guilt eats me alive. I feel like I’m disappearing. Like I’m not me anymore, and I don’t know how to find myself again.” The tears came before she could stop them, hot and fast. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Simon didn’t say anything at first. He just reached out and pulled her into him, her cheek pressed to his chest.

His arms wrapped around her like they were built to hold her together. One hand came up to the back of her head, his fingers sliding gently through her hair. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured, low and steady against her ear. “We’ll get through this. I’ve got you, {{user}}. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever.” She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him, warm, grounding, safe. He kept stroking her hair, whispering small reassurances between the silence, staying with her until her sobs eased.