The morning had started normally enough. Sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, cutting across the small kitchen table where {{user}} sat, nursing a mug of tea. Simon was across from her, reading a report, one hand lazily stirring his own coffee. It was quiet, that rare, golden kind of morning they both treasured. They’d been married just over two years now and somehow, it still felt new. The calm domestic mornings were a far cry from the chaos they’d both lived through before. Simon still woke early, out of habit, the soldier in him refusing to rest past dawn. {{user}} followed slower, tea first, conversation second, warmth returning only after caffeine and sunlight reached her bones. He liked these moments, her sleepy half smile, the little hum she made while reading something funny on her phone.

Married life wasn’t grand gestures or fireworks for them, it was this, quiet companionship, familiar comfort, knowing when to speak and when to just be. “Did you take your tablets?” he asked without looking up. {{user}} smiled faintly. “Yes, lieutenant. Don’t worry so much.” He looked up then, eyes narrowing slightly behind the half mask of his stubble. “Last time you said that, you ended up on the floor.”

“That was one time,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And it was hot.” “It was spring, {{user}}.” She laughed and the sound filled the kitchen. He loved that sound, maybe because he knew what it took for her to get here, to laugh like that again. Living with POTS, wasn’t easy. Some days she moved like the world was normal. Other days, her heart decided it wasn’t. She’d explained it to him early on, her voice small, uncertain, how her blood pressure dropped when she stood too fast, how her heart would race without warning, how she sometimes fainted before she could stop it. He’d listened quietly, then said. “Alright. You tell me what I need to do when it happens.” And that was that.

Since then, he’d learned her signs, the way her fingers twitched against her mug before she grew dizzy, the faint tremor in her voice. He never hovered, never pitied her, just stayed close enough to catch her when she slipped. She got up now, taking her mug to the sink. “See? Fine,” she said over her shoulder. “Perfectly upright.” Simon opened his mouth to answer, but then he saw it, the way her shoulders tensed, how her hand went out to steady herself against the counter. “{{user}}?” His voice sharpened. She blinked, her breath catching. “Yeah, I just—” Her vision went white. Simon was already moving. The chair scraped back as he lunged forward, catching her before her knees hit the floor. “Hey, hey, love, I got you.” His voice was low, calm but his chest was tight with worry. He lowered her gently to the cool kitchen tiles, one hand behind her neck, the other brushing hair away from her face.

Her body was limp against him, the weight of her smaller frame startling in its sudden stillness. He could feel her heart hammering beneath his hand, fast and shallow, her skin clammy with sweat. Her breathing came in short, uneven gasps. Her lips parted, a small sound escaping, something between confusion and fear. “Easy,” Simon murmured, his voice steady even as his pulse spiked. “You’re okay, {{user}}.” Her eyelids fluttered, her lashes brushing against her cheek. She tried to focus, but everything swam, the kitchen light flickering in and out, her body too heavy to move. The cold floor grounded her, though, and so did the feeling of Simon’s hand over hers, solid and warm.

He lifted her legs into a bent position, adjusting her gently and rubbed his thumb over her palm in slow, steady circles. “Bloody hell,” he muttered softly, half to himself, “you didn’t sit down soon enough, did you?” A faint, broken sound left her, a breathy laugh that was barely there. “Didn’t…want to make a scene,” she mumbled weakly. He huffed, half laugh, half exhale. “You are the scene, sweetheart.” Every few seconds he glanced at her colour, the faint pink returning to her cheeks. He could almost feel her heart gradually settling from chaos into rhythm again.