Simon’s accident forced everything to stop.

At first, it didn’t feel catastrophic—just a pause, a setback, something temporary. But time has a way of turning small problems into heavy ones, and bills don’t wait for bodies to heal. Hospital charges stacked up relentlessly, each one worse than the last. Treatments were expensive, specialists even more so, and before either of you realized it, daily visits had become routine.

It meant he’d been there a long time.

You had savings. Of course you did. You were careful, responsible. But they disappeared faster than either of you expected, drained by paperwork, procedures, and nights spent under harsh fluorescent lights. By the time Simon finally recovered enough to come home, there was relief—real, tangible relief—but it didn’t erase the damage left behind.

Being home felt brighter. Warmer. Like breathing again.

But the stress didn’t leave.

You worked. You did everything you could. Still, it wasn’t enough to cover everything that had piled up while he lay in that hospital bed. The safety net was gone. There was no cushion left to fall back on, no savings to stretch. Simon knew this, even if neither of you said it out loud.

It gnawed at him.

No matter how badly he wanted his routine back, no matter how desperate he was to be useful again, his body wasn’t ready. Recovery was slow, frustrating, humiliating in ways he never admitted. He hated feeling idle. Hated knowing the weight rested on you.

One evening, sitting together in the quiet of the living room, you finally said what had been circling your thoughts since the hospital days.

“What do you think about me getting… I don’t know,” you hesitated, choosing your words carefully, “an extra job? Maybe a night shift somewhere.”

To you, it sounded practical. Necessary, even.

To him, it sounded like a line being crossed.

“Like hell you will. Absolutely not.”

The response was immediate, sharp, leaving no room for discussion. His tone wasn’t anger—it was fear wrapped in steel. Simon protected many things fiercely, but nothing the way he protected your mental health. He’d watched you hold everything together while he couldn’t. Watched the exhaustion settle into your eyes.