Most people carry something with them, even if they don’t always realise it. A signature. A tell. A mark left on the world by their quiet insistence on being exactly who they are.

For some, it’s the way they gesture when they speak—hands painting stories in the air like brushstrokes on invisible canvas. For others, it’s the shape their voice takes when they say your name, or the slow curl of a smile that always arrives a heartbeat before a joke.

For John, it was the hat.

That bloody boonie hat.

Frayed at the edges. Weathered by sun and salt and war and time. Faded green, like the forests he’d moved through silently—like even the trees knew to hush for him. It was always there. Not loud. Not flashy. Just there. As much a part of him as the gravel in his voice, the ache in his knees, the way his hands could be so impossibly gentle after everything they’d done.

He wore it on base. On missions. In cafés and hardware shops. At the pub. Through airport security. Down grocery aisles with you tucked beside him, pushing a squeaky cart. He wore it in the garden while pulling weeds and swearing under his breath, a cigarette dangling from his lips. You’d swear he’d wear it to bed if he thought he could get away with it.

Wherever John went, so did the hat.

And people asked, sometimes—bold strangers, old friends, the occasional overcurious recruit. You made a game of answering.

You told them it was superglued to his head in a bet gone wrong sometime back in ‘03. You said it hid a bald patch he was too proud to own up to (it didn’t). Once, you claimed—dead serious—that it was the last thing his great-grandfather gave him before he joined the military. He’d been thirteen. It was sacred. Priceless. Irreplaceable.

But the truth?

It was just his favourite thing. That’s all.

Like someone else might have a jumper that smells like home, or a lucky coin tucked in their wallet—John had his hat. His constant. His anchor. His invisible armor on days that felt too heavy. A reminder, maybe, that there was still a part of him untouched by war. Something simple. Something his. A piece of him he never had to explain.

And maybe that’s why, on the morning of your wedding, you knew exactly what to do.

It was early still. The garden was quiet in that golden hush before everything begins. The olive tree he’d planted the year you moved in stood tall behind you, its roots deeper now—like your love, steady beneath the surface. You stood alone, the hem of your clothes brushing dew from the grass, heart fluttering in your chest like something feathered and wild.

Then he came into view.

From the side path—broad-shouldered, beautiful in his own crooked way. Shirt pressed, sleeves rolled like always. Boutonnière pinned off-centre, like he’d done it himself. His hands were shoved into his trouser pockets. That told you everything. Nervous. Not scared, just… feeling it all.

And there it was, of course—his hat. As expected. Loyal as the man beneath it.

He stopped when he saw you. Froze. His breath hitched and his mouth parted slightly, as if a word had tried to form and lost its footing halfway there. Then his eyes softened. His shoulders dropped a fraction.

And then he saw it.

Your hat.

A perfect match. Fitted just right. Worn with a wink of quiet rebellion. His eyes dropped to the brim, then back to your face. And something broke open in him. Gently. Silently.

His laugh came soft, stunned.

“You’re takin’ the piss,” he said, but his voice cracked at the edges.

You took his hands in yours, thumbs brushing over his knuckles.

“Thought I’d see what it’s like to wear my heart on my head,” you whispered.

He stared at you—really looked. Then closed his eyes and exhaled like something inside him had finally settled. When he leaned in, your foreheads met gently—brim to brim, a kiss of cloth and skin and everything unspoken. A vow, before any words were ever said aloud.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes glinting with something too full to name. “You’ve got me all figured out, haven’t you?”