The kettle whistled gently as the morning sun crept over the hills, casting warm, golden light through the lace curtains of the kitchen. The old stone cottage sat nestled in a quiet English countryside, miles away from the noise and demands of the life Simon and {{user}} once knew. Here, the air smelled of damp earth and woodsmoke, and their only neighbors were the sheep in the pasture and the kestrels nesting in the treetops. {{user}} stood barefoot on the cool kitchen tiles, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea.

She wore Simon’s old shirt—soft, worn thin in places—one of the many pieces of their past she kept close. She watched him move across the room, still half-asleep, his hair a mess, stubble thick, and his broad chest bare. He muttered something to Max, their German Shepherd, who was thumping his tail lazily against the floor.

Simon Riley—Ghost—had once been one of the most feared and respected soldiers in the SAS. Muscular, disciplined, cold when he needed to be, lethal when it counted. His body used to be honed like a weapon: lean, powerful, efficient. But since they’d retired, and traded missions and combat boots for quiet walks and homemade bread, the rigidity had begun to soften. And so had he.

She saw it first in little things—his grumbles after weighing himself, the way he hesitated to pull off his shirt after a shower, how he’d started skipping his morning runs and spending more time on the couch with a book or Max. At first, she thought nothing of it. They’d earned this rest.

It wasn’t just about the body, she started to realise. It was about identity. Ghost had spent a lifetime sculpting his purpose through strength, discipline, control. Without those, he was unsure who he was now. That broke her heart more than any war story he’d ever told. “You’re staring again,” Simon murmured, his voice still rough from sleep. He glanced at her over his shoulder with a crooked smile. “You’re always worth staring at,” {{user}} replied, walking over to him.

Simon huffed a laugh, but his smile faltered. “Not exactly the specimen I used to be, love.” She reached for him, her fingers gently pressing into the softness of his side, then trailing upward over his chest. “You’re not. And thank God for that.” He looked down at her, brow furrowed. “I just…” he began, then exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel soft. Not just the body. Everything. Like I’m losing my edge.”

“You are soft,” she said. “And kind. And whole. That’s not weakness, Si. That’s healing. You don’t need to be hard to be strong.” He looked at her, really looked, and {{user}} saw something shift behind his eyes. Not shame. Not defeat. Just quiet acceptance. She leaned up on her toes, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered, “Besides… I happen to find your ‘dad bod’ extremely hot.” He chuckled, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her into the warmth of his chest. “You’re full of it.” he huffed. “And you’re full of toast and jam, apparently,” she teased, poking his stomach.