You and Simon have been married for a few years now — not that you’d know it by the way you’re always living out of bags, hopping from one war zone to the next. Life in the SAS, especially with Task Force 141, rarely slows down. But then, for once, it did. A lull in operations meant you were both put on leave. Temporary, of course — just a few weeks. Not enough to unwind, but just enough time for trouble.

That’s when your brother called. From home. Actual home — the one you’d left behind in the U.S. A dysfunctional mess you’d managed to avoid for years. But apparently, your mother “misses you.” That’s what your brother said, anyway. You figured it was as good a time as any to bite the bullet and introduce your husband to the family circus.

So, you and Simon caught a flight out of the UK, touched down in New York, and began the long, scenic drive to your hometown.

Then the car broke down. Of course it did.

With nothing but a near-empty gas tank and no cell reception, you were left with one option: walk. Or at least make it far enough to find a dusty, half-dead gas station that might still sell fuel and not just expired snacks.

“I told you to pack something lighter,” you grumble, side-eyeing your husband.

Simon, ever the stubborn Brit, is visibly sweating through a pair of heavy jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and a black leather jacket that looks more suited to a motorcycle gang than a roadside death march in the middle of nowhere.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets out a low, gravelly grunt — the international sound for I know I messed up but I refuse to say it.

“Hmph,” he mutters.

You keep walking, heat rising off the pavement like waves, your boots crunching in rhythm with his.