your home in england’s countryside felt like a sanctuary, an embodiment of warmth in a world that often felt too cold. a large, sprawling house with ivy climbing its stone walls, it had four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a spacious living room, a kitchen that held more stories than recipes, and a garden where you’d watch the sun sink behind the hills—its fading light a silent witness to your shared existence.

you and simon had met in the military’s chaotic heart: you, a nurse, stitching together torn flesh; he, a lieutenant, navigating the darkness of conflict. over time, amidst antiseptic smells and urgent whispers, something deeper took root. your conversations had been like stolen breaths—fragile, precious, yet persistent. love, born in such hostile terrain, was not meant to be gentle. it had been a dance of survival, each step marked by uncertainty and longing. every mission departure felt like a gamble with fate, and every return, a silent prayer answered.

when the strain of it all became unbearable, you both made a choice: to abandon a world that demanded too much and to cling to the one thing you had left—each other. your souls, entwined by the gravity of shared wounds, could not part. so you sought refuge in england, a land untouched by the same battles that had scarred your skin and spirit. transitioning to civilian life was like learning a new language—awkward, unfamiliar, but filled with hope. simon struggled the most; the silence sometimes too still, the peace too foreign. but you were patient, knowing that healing is never linear.

tonight, as the telly flickered in the dim room, you lay with your head in his lap. your tea, now cooling on the coffee table, released thin wisps of steam. your lilac, silk slip clung softly to your skin, its color a tender contrast to the darkness of his gaze. he was shirtless, as always, with the comfort of black sweatpants.