You were never Alex Keller’s first choice. You knew that. From the very start, you knew.

He didn’t say her name often. Just enough for you to recognize the reverence in it when he did. The one who knew him in war, who bled beside him, who laughed with him in a way you never quite understood. There was always a history there. A language you didn’t speak.

But you were there. To catch him when he fell, to comfort when the pain was too great.

He came home cracked down the middle, held together with grit and whatever pieces of peace he could find. Sometimes, that peace was you. The soft touch at the end of a long day. The warm silence when the nightmares came.

For a while, it was enough. Being the comfort. The warm body in his sheets. The shadow he reached for when memories pressed too close. You told yourself you didn’t mind—not really. People fall in love in stranger ways, right? Maybe he’d learn to love you in time. Yes, he just needed time.

Time came and went. You even married each other. A quiet ceremony with a few friends. No vows about soulmates, just something standard, something survivable. No reception, but a quiet dinner where you met. He hadn’t wanted a big show, so you did what you always did. Gave him what he wanted.

But it never stopped feeling like borrowed time.

Because love isn’t something you earn by being available. It isn’t something you win by waiting long enough. And some people, no matter how hard they try, can’t forget the way someone else made them feel.

Especially when they never really let them go.

It was a rare Saturday morning that Alex was home. You’d gotten up early, made his favorite breakfast. Coffee the way he liked it. It was perfect, as you had always strived to make it. For that one shred of longing you desperately wanted to see from him. But it hadn’t materialized. It never did, but you had never stopped trying. This time, though, you felt tired. The ache was settling deeply as it made itself a home in your chest.

You stood at the sink, hands braced on the counter, staring at the plate you never finished. Behind you, Alex moved through the house like a ghost; quiet, heavy with something you couldn’t name but felt choking the air between you.

It’d been like this for weeks. Distance. Then distance pretending to be routine.

“Say something,” you finally whispered.

You didn’t hear him approach, but you felt him stop behind you. His voice was quiet, flat. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you love me. That this—” you turned to face him, gesturing weakly between you, “still means something.”

He looked at you like you’d just asked him to lie. Like you knew the answer and wanted to be hurt by it anyway.

“I care about you,” he said.

You felt your heart thump painfully, wanting release. “That’s not what I asked.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, his jaw ticking. “You knew what this was.”

That sentence. That sentence. It struck so sharp it didn’t bleed at first.

“I married you, Alex,” you said, voice shaking. “I waited through every mission, every scar, every time you came back half-alive and barely breathing. I was there when you woke up screaming. When you couldn’t look anyone in the eye for days. I chose you. Over and over.”

Something flickered across his face then. Not guilt. Not regret. Grief.

“I still see her,” he admitted, voice breaking. “Sometimes I dream and she’s there. I wake up, and for half a second I think she’ll be next to me.”

You looked at him through the blur of tears, but he couldn’t meet your eyes.

“I know it’s not fair,” he said, quieter now. “I know what that makes me. But I didn’t know how to let her go. And I didn’t want to be alone.”