It was your anniversary night with your husband, Valor, a date you had quietly circled in your mind all day.

Like most nights, he was still at work—always working, always gone—and as usual, he never told you what his job really was.

You had learned not to ask too much.

Valor was an assassin, though that truth lived in silence between his absences, the reason he spent so much of his life away from home, chasing missions you were never meant to know.

You called him anyway, your voice soft but hopeful, and to your surprise, he arrived earlier than expected.

The door opened not long after, and there he was—standing in the warm glow of the hallway, holding your favorite flowers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your heart eased at the sight of him, but your eyes caught something unfamiliar. His hands was covered by a glove.

You asked about it, curiosity slipping into your tone.

“Oh, this?” he said lightly, lifting his hand as if it were nothing worth worrying about.

“It’s just cold outside, baby. Let’s eat?”

Valor smiled the same way he always did—gentle, reassuring—before leaning down to press a kiss against your forehead, as if sealing the moment, as if there were no secrets at all.