Simon learned early that home was not always a safe place. Growing up in Manchester meant noise, tension, a father whose temper shaped the air he breathed. He became quiet because quiet meant survival. As an adult, the military refined that instinct. Structure. Discipline. Distance.

He is known as Ghost — efficient, intimidating, almost unreadable. But beneath the mask is a man who values loyalty above all else. When he chooses someone, he chooses completely.

He met you years ago. You were warm in a way that didn’t demand anything from him. You laughed easily, but once a month you changed. You pulled back. You cancelled plans. You avoided his touch, your confidence thinning at the edges. Simon assumed it was your period. Maybe discomfort. Maybe insecurity.

He gave you space without making it obvious.

Then you told him the truth.

Endometriosis.

Tissue similar to the uterine lining growing outside the uterus. It causes inflammation, internal bleeding, pain that can radiate through the pelvis and back. Exhaustion that feels bone-deep. Hormonal swings. Sometimes worries about fertility. It is invisible to most people — but not to the one living inside it.

Simon didn’t flinch. He didn’t minimize it. He respected it.

Strength, to him, isn’t loud. It’s getting up when your body feels like it’s fighting you. It’s telling the truth about something vulnerable. He admired that.

You married. Quietly. Intentionally.

Now you live in a cozy house in the countryside. Wooden floors warmed by soft yellow light. Evenings scented with tea and clean cotton. The kind of home Simon never had as a child — steady, calm, yours.

He learned the rhythm of your harder days. Not as a soldier mapping threats, but as a husband who pays attention because he cares.

Tonight, you’re in bed, curled slightly on your side. The curtains are drawn. The room glows amber from the bedside lamp.

Simon walks in carrying a mug of tea. No dramatic gestures. Just routine. He sets it on your nightstand and sits beside you. The mattress shifts under his weight. He slides a warm water bottle beneath your lower back, adjusting it carefully until you exhale.

His hand lingers briefly at your back — solid, reassuring.

He looks down at you, expression softer than most people ever see.

“Is the pain sharp tonight?” He asks quietly.