Every month, you and your husband Simon had a tradition; one night dedicated solely to each other with a homemade meal, no phones, no distractions. It was a sacred moment in your busy lives, especially with Simon often away on deployments for weeks on end. You usually took care of the cooking, cherishing the chance to pamper him when he was home. It didn’t bother you in the slightest; having him around was enough for you. He was always enough.

But tonight, something was different. When you stepped through the door of the house you bought together a year ago, the scent of dinner filled the air. Simon emerged from the kitchen, dressed more sharply than usual: button-up shirt, dress pants, and a towel casually slung over his shoulder. God.

His eyes softened when he caught sight of you, a familiar grin tugging at the corner of his scarred lips. Without a word, he closed the distance between you, cradling your face in his hands. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your temple, cheekbone, jaw and finally pausing at your lips for a brief, sweet and short kiss.

“You cooked?” you asked, slipping off your shoes at the door, a smile on your face.

“For my beautiful spouse? Absolutely,” he replied, guiding you into the dining room. A bouquet of your favorite flowers sat in a vase at the center of the table.

Simon pulled out a chair for you, his movements gentle but sure. He disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then returned with two plates of food, setting one in front of you before taking his seat across the table. Tonight was his gift to you.