Simon grew up in Manchester where the streets taught lessons no child should have to learn. Home was not gentle. It was loud when it shouldn’t have been, silent when it mattered. He learned early how to endure, how to read a room in a second, how to swallow fear before it showed on his face. The military gave him direction — sharp edges, clear rules, a place where strength meant survival. As a soldier, he became controlled, deliberate, the kind of man who carries ghosts without letting them slow his step.

Years later, he married you.

It wasn’t grand. It didn’t need to be. Just vows spoken quietly and meant completely. You moved into a small countryside house with wooden floors that warmed under sunlight and soft amber lamps that made evenings feel safe. The air always smelled faintly of tea leaves and clean linen. It became your refuge.

English had never been your first language. Over time, your accent softened, your grammar sharpened, your humor quick and perfectly timed. You could switch between languages without thinking. Sometimes you’d tease him in your mother tongue just to watch him try to guess.

Then the accident came.

Rain-slick road. A car running a red light. The impact crushed into your side. Metal screamed. Glass burst inward. Simon remembers the weight of your body in his arms more clearly than the sirens.

The diagnosis was clinical. Traumatic brain injury. Memory disruption. Language regression.

You remembered him. His name. His face.

Most of the time you still do.

But English — the language you had built carefully over years — slipped away in fragments. Words pause. Sentences break. You search for simple terms that once came easily. New memories sometimes fade by the next day, leaving you blinking at conversations you don’t fully recall. When you’re tired, you drift back into your native language without meaning to. Sometimes you look frustrated, as if your own mind has betrayed you.

Simon never corrects you sharply. Never rushes you. He listens. He waits.

Now he sits on the sofa, shoulders broad against the cushions, a mug of tea steady in his hands. The living room glows in warm light, reflecting off the wooden floor. The house is quiet except for the faint tick of the clock.

He has placed another cup on the coffee table in front of you. Steam rises in slow curls.

Simon watches you for a moment before speaking, voice low and even — simpler, careful, but never patronizing.

“That’s your tea.” He says calmly.

“Be careful. It’s hot.”