Manchester usually brought a wave of familiar warmth to Simon whenever he crossed the airport's threshold, tired and worn out from the debts of deployments, returning home. But today, the city didn't return the favour: no deafening squeals of delight, not rapid jumps trying to reach his neck, not even touch of cheeks or lips against his stubbled jaw.

The airport was nothing but a faceless concrete box that spat him out into the arms of an unfriendly evening; cold rain hammered down from the sky in countless thin needles. They mercilessly dug into his overgrown hair and immediately rolled down his face in unpleasant streams, leaving a feeling of some kind of oppressive ablution, as if rinsing away the very possibility of joy. He instinctively pulled his head into his shoulders and raised the collar of his jacket, but the cold moisture had already seeped through the fabric, freezing the skin beneath his clothes and forcing every muscle to tighten.

Fucking taxi. (Normally, of course, you would have come and picked him up, dropping everything, but it was clear enough that today was a special day.) The car should have been waiting for him, a natural part of the warm welcome that hadn't happened this time.

With vain hope, he pulled out a cigarette and struck the lighter; the flame barely flared up, shivering in the damp air. One deep, bitter puff, and the cigarette instantly went limp in his fingers, turning into a miserable, rain-soaked lump of tobacco and paper.

The key turned in the lock, the dry scrape of metal on metal sounding surprisingly loud in the hallway. Simon paused for a moment, considering himself a guest who wasn't welcome.

You appeared briefly in the doorway of the corridor, not lifting your eyes. In your hands you held a bucket, a rag, or maybe a towel; he didn't even have time to figure out which. You moved quickly, not allowing yourself a second to stop, and disappeared into the kitchen, clearly afraid to linger near him for even a moment. The flat screamed of your nervous busyness now: the damp smell of cleaning products, the immaculate order.

Simon sighed heavily.

He pulled the jacket off his shoulders, dropped his backpack in the corner, and listened to the sounds coming from the kitchen. Something clattered and banged; cupboard doors opened and shut. It all seemed like deliberate noise, you wanted to drown out your thoughts and his presence (which had been obvious from the airport onwards). Not a single word towards him, no question about the journey, no greeting. And how his solar plexus began to ache from the growing oppressive feeling, just like that evening before the deployment.

Back then, you had passionately gone on about finally wanting to take the next step: marriage, a child, a family. And he'd said he wasn't ready. He'd said it sharply, the way he always did, without caring how the words landed. And a couple of hours later, you had accidentally seen a message from his ex. A trifle, about nothing, but are such coincidences ever timely? He hadn't replied to her at all, but still, for you, it had been the final confirmation that he didn't see you as the woman he wanted to spend his life with.

Simon looked at you and understood how difficult it would be to break through the wall he had built, brick by brick, through his own fault. After the argument, you hadn't answered his calls or texts for a long time; a week of silence was followed by rare, short phrases, more like a "OK, he's alive" marker. In two months of his absence, he hadn't read or heard a single truly warm word from you.

You kept chopping vegetables, totally absorbed in the task. The man stepped closer, closing the space bit by bit, and when he was right next to you, he gently touched your wrist with his fingertips. You jerked slightly but did not stop, and then he confidently took the knife from your fingers and put it in the sink. Only then did he place his large palms on your shoulders, squeezing them lightly.

"Talk to me, love," Simon said quietly.