You frown when you turn over and face an empty wall instead of seeing Simon's face. Christ, it's good that he has the habit of waking up egregiously early, but it does suck that there's little cuddletime between saying goodnight and breakfast the next day.

You pad slowly down the stairs of the quiet house, eyes scanning for your husband, but finding nil. He's where you looked last, sitting on the wraparound-porch's bench, eyes wide, staring into the distance, into the barren and lush trees and orange sunrise, but he's looking past them too. He's haunted. It's been so long since he's had blood on his hands, but Simon also lives with having done things, and suffered things, that no man should ever have to think about.

".. Si." you hum, sitting beside him, and gently lay your hand on his lap to ground him He breathes hard, but after a few seconds, focuses his eyes on you.

".. mornin'."