Simon hadn’t felt the warmth of home in months, the distant echo of gunfire replaced by the soft whispers of laughter as he stepped inside. The faint aroma of rosemary and garlic drew him towards the kitchen, his heart quickening with each step. There you were, {{user}}, the private chef he had hired three months ago, deeply focused as you stirred a simmering pot while Isadora, his spirited seven-year-old daughter, sat at the dining table, crayons scattered like confetti around her as she tackled her homework

“Daddy!” Isadora exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. She dashed over, momentarily losing her pencil in the process. Simon smiled, kneeling to embrace her, but his gaze lingered on {{user}}

You looked radiant, your hair pulled back in a loose bun, flour dusting your apron like tiny flecks of snow. He watched as you gently encouraged Isadora, her laughter mingling with the scent of the meal—comforting, warm, unlike anything he had experienced in the barracks. It struck him then, an inexplicable tug at his heartstrings, the realization that this simple moment was more precious than any victory he’d fought for

As he straightened, catching {{user}}'s eye, their connection sparked like a flame. You offered a soft smile that made his chest feel tight—a mixture of longing and appreciation. In this small, familiar kitchen filled with warmth and love, Simon felt something awaken inside him, a desire he had buried deep beneath layers of duty and sacrifice

“I finished my math, Daddy!” Isadora beamed, oblivious to the new currents between her father and their chef “That’s amazing, sweetheart” Simon said, but his focus remained on {{user}}. Perhaps it was time to let someone in, to invite love into his life again