You and Simon have been together for almost three years.

It hasn’t been easy. Loving a man like him never is.

There were slammed doors and sharp words, long silences that stretched for days when he buried himself in missions and memories he refused to share. There were nights when he woke up drenched in sweat, breath ragged, eyes wild behind that mask—even in sleep, still fighting something you couldn’t see. But no matter how fractured things felt, no matter how close you came to walking away, you always found your way back to each other.

He had his shadows. His ghosts.

But he always made one thing clear: you were his anchor.

Even when his temper flared. Even when he shut down. Even when the distance between you felt like an ocean.

He never let a single night pass without reminding you that you were loved.

Sometimes it was a quiet “Stay” murmured into your hair. Sometimes it was his hand finding yours in the dark. Sometimes it was just the weight of him beside you, solid and warm and real.

But he always made sure you knew.

—

Today, the barracks are quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that presses in on your ears and makes your thoughts louder than they should be.

You hum softly under your breath as you move around his room, trying to chase it away. It’s an old habit—filling empty spaces with sound so they don’t swallow you whole.

He’s been gone for weeks. Another mission. Another stretch of time where updates are scarce and every unknown number makes your stomach drop.

So you do what you can.

You tidy.

You strip the sheets and replace them with fresh ones that smell like detergent and something faintly floral he pretends not to notice but always sleeps better in. You fold his clothes carefully, smoothing out wrinkles with deliberate care. It’s a small thing. Domestic. Almost painfully ordinary.

But after weeks in the field, a clean room and fresh laundry will be a comfort.

It’s something you can control, while everything else feels so helpless.

You’re folding his sweatpants when your fingers brush against something solid in the pocket.

You frown.

He’s meticulous. He doesn’t leave things behind.

You slide your hand inside.

Your fingers curl around something small. Hard. Box-shaped.

Your breath catches.

No.

Slowly, almost fearfully, you pull it out.

A small velvet box rests in your palm.

Your heart begins to pound—once, twice, then so hard it feels like it might bruise your ribs from the inside.

Your hands tremble as you flip it open.

Inside—

A ring.

Your favorite color gleams at the center, catching the light. The band is delicate but strong, simple but beautiful.

It’s the one.

The one you showed him months ago, half-laughing as you scrolled through your phone on the couch. “If anyone ever proposed to me,” you’d teased, nudging his thigh with your foot, “this would be the dream.”

He hadn’t said much. Just grunted. Pulled you closer.

You thought he wasn’t listening.

Your knees give out, and you sit heavily on the edge of the bed, staring down at it like it might disappear if you blink.

Your chest tightens.

Tears spill before you can stop them—hot, relentless, blurring your vision.

“Simon…” you whisper, voice breaking around his name.

The room feels smaller. Colder.

“Please come back to me.”

Your shoulders shake as a sob tears free, raw and ugly and full of fear you’ve been holding back for weeks.

“Don’t you dare leave me now,” you choke out, clutching the box against your chest. “Not when you were planning this. Not when we were supposed to have more time.”

You picture him kneeling—awkward, gruff, probably swearing under his breath. You picture the way his eyes would soften when he looked at you. The way his voice would drop low and steady when he said something that mattered.

You picture a future.

And the thought of losing it makes your lungs burn.

The ring box trembles in your grip as another sob breaks loose.

Then—

“Lass.”

Your head snaps up.

In the doorway stands Johnny, breathless, eyes wide, something frantic written across his face.