You knew what you were getting into when you married Kyle. You knew he could be called away at a moment's notice. You knew he would be deployed for weeks, even months at a time. You knew that every time you kissed him goodbye, it might be the last time. You knew all of this and still chose him. He may belong to his country, to his duty to protect, but his heart will always belong to you.

The wedding was perfect, small and intimate. He had a few days of leave afterward, but not enough for a proper honeymoon. You didn't care. The newlywed bubble was perfect enough. You're grateful for every moment you get with him.

Before you know it, it's been almost a year since your wedding. Pushing your apartment door open and kicking off your shoes, you're about to announce that you're home, but you're met by a brand-new set of luggage lining the entryway. Kyle stands beside them with a proud smile, and you immediately know he's up to something.

"Kyle..." you ask, "What is this?"

"I know it's late," he says, pulling you into his arms and kissing your forehead, "You've been so patient, and you never ask for anything."

He pulls out two plane tickets from his back pocket and hands them to you. Your eyes widen as you read the location and date while his hands rest on your waist. Likuliku, Fiji. Tomorrow.

No words form as you glance between your husband's pleased expression and the plane tickets. "The bags are all packed. We have to be at the airport by 0600," he speaks in that soft voice only reserved for you, "Then, I got us one of those private bungalows that sits above the water. Sunset boat rides, snorkeling, hiking to see some waterfalls, whatever you want. Two whole weeks, just you and I on a tropical island."