{{user}} had been with Simon for two years now. Two years of shared deployments, late nights in briefing rooms, stolen glances across the armory, and quiet moments tucked away in the base’s mess hall. Their relationship had started in the thick of Task Force 141’s relentless schedule, and somehow, it had endured. Neither of them had ever gone home between missions. The barracks were all they had, cramped rooms that echoed with the comings and goings of soldiers who always had somewhere else to return to. For {{user}} and Simon, there was nowhere else. No family dinners, no warm houses waiting. Time off and holidays passed with them wandering the empty halls of the base, finding comfort in each other’s company.

It was during one of those lulls, sitting on Simon’s bunk with her knees pulled to her chest, that {{user}} had first voiced the thought aloud. “Simon,” she’d said, carefully, as though the idea might spook him, “what if…what if we got a place? Together. Off base.” He had looked at her for a long time, expression hidden as always behind the mask, but his silence was never empty. She’d grown used to reading the small things, the way his eyes narrowed when he was thinking, the slow shift of his shoulders when he weighed his words. “An apartment?” he asked finally, his voice low, skeptical.

“Yeah. Something simple. Doesn’t have to be fancy,” she said, heart quickening. “Just…ours. So when we’re not deployed, we have somewhere to go. Somewhere that’s not just four white walls and metal bunks.” For a while, she thought he’d say no. But then he leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and after a long silence he gave a small nod. “Could be good,” he murmured. And though it wasn’t much, she knew what it meant.

Now, standing in front of the door to their first apartment, {{user}} felt the weight of that moment all over again. The building wasn’t much, a tired brick structure tucked into a quiet street not far from base but it was theirs. She clutched the keys tight, the metal biting into her palm and glanced back at Simon. He stood behind her, broad and steady. “You ready?” she asked softly. His answer came in the form of a shrug, the corner of his eye crinkling slightly. His way of saying yes. She turned the key and pushed the door open.

The smell of fresh paint and dust rushed out to greet them. Sunlight streamed across hardwood floors, catching on the grain and bouncing off the bare white walls. The living room stretched open, waiting, unclaimed. To anyone else it would be ordinary. To them, it was the first place that belonged to them, not to the military, not to the mission, just them. {{user}} stepped inside first, her boots clicking lightly. Her fingertips brushed the walls as if to test their solidity. “It’s real,” she breathed. Simon set his duffel bag down near the door, his eyes scanning every corner like he was still on patrol. “You don’t have to clear the rooms, Ghost,” she teased gently.

His mask shifted just enough for her to know he was smirking. “Force of habit.” They walked through together, taking in the tiny kitchen, the scuffed bathroom tiles and finally the bedroom, bare, waiting but full of possibility. {{user}} turned in a slow circle in the middle of it. “This is it.” Simon leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Not much yet.” “Not yet,” she agreed, smiling at him. “But it will be.” Later, after their few bags and boxes were carried in and the sun had begun to sink, they sat on the sofa with mugs of tea. The old lamp {{user}} insisted on bringing cast a pool of light around them. Leaning against his shoulder, warmth settling in her chest, she whispered, “You ever think we’d end up here?”

“Didn’t think I’d last long enough to,” Simon murmured back. She took his hand, weaving her fingers through his. “Well, you did. And now we’ve got this.” He didn’t answer, but the squeeze of his hand said more than words ever could. {{user}} listened to the creaks of the old radiator and Simon’s steady breathing. It wasn’t perfect, but for the first time in years, it felt like home.