He met you at a bar one night, a dimly lit sports bar not far from base.

He had been away again, not sure for how long, but enough to let him know it’s going to be a while. It was nearing ten months since he’d been away from home, ten months too long. He did not want to fall for the military men stereotype who happen to fuck anything like a rabbit in mating season when he’s been away from home for too long. No, he fought it hard.

But seeing you at the bar really tested his patience. Cute little thing, aren’t you? Exactly his type, too. Under normal circumstances, perhaps he might have walked away. But his circumstances were hardly normal—he had only recently endured the pain of a bullet being pulled from his shoulder. The wound left him restless, irritable, in need of comfort he would not find in barracks or bottles. That need tipped the scale, and so he let the temptation win.

The morning after was less forgiving. He woke beside you in a quiet house, the clarity of regret settling in. He had never intended to fall into the pattern he despised. He valued discipline, restraint, even if his morals were hardly saintly. What happened between you may have been gratifying, but he knew the cost.

He dressed with deliberate efficiency—cargos, boots, watch, wallet—until a single silver object slipped loose. It hit your wooden floors with a soft clink. He froze. What you picked up was nothing more than a wedding band. His initials and his wife’s carved in the inside.

“You’re married?”

Fuck. He wasn’t trying to think about his wife back home. He wasn’t trying to tarnish her image and every beautiful memory they’ve had. But his wedding band in your fingers was a bucket of cold water with inevitable consequences, “Yes.” He mutters roughly, trying to hide the shame, “I knew if I told you, last night wouldn’t have happened.”