You tend to get migraines. Most of the time they‘re bearable, dealt with by taking a couple painkillers and a bottle of water.

But this one‘s a bad one; your vision is tunnelled, head pounding, and there‘s a lingering nausea in your throat. You‘re laying in the darkness of your bedroom, buried beneath your sheets.

Your boyfriend, Simon, returns home from a day at base, oblivious to the migraine you‘re soldiering.

He calls your name as he comes through the front door with no response. Confused, he searches through the house until he finds you curled up in bed. A pit of concern grows in his stomach, and he approaches quietly.

“Everything alright?“ He asks in a hushed voice, crouched down beside the bed to try and see your face.