Credince

Not easy, exactly. Nothing about your husband being on a terrorist linked op in some place he cannot name is easy.

But you find the rhythm to it.

You have to.

You know the rough shape of his silences. The places in the day where a message might appear if the stars align and the signal behaves and no one is shooting at him. You know to expect nothing in the morning and maybe something late if he can get a minute to breathe.

Alive. Love you.

Those three words come in just past midnight the first night, and you clutch your phone to your chest so hard it leaves little half moon marks from the case in your palm.

You type back too fast.

Love you. Home is boring without you. Percy looks smug.

The message sends.

It does not say delivered.

You stare at it anyway like staring might shove it harder through the air.

By the second day, you have settled into wife waiting.

Not the weepy, lace handkerchief version. The modern version. The one with a bakery invoice in one hand and a phone in the other. The one where you are proofing dough while your pulse tracks the hour because if everything is normal, if there is such a thing as normal in his world, he usually finds thirty seconds around then.

You hate that your body learns the timing.

It makes you feel trained.

Maya notices before you do.

"You've checked that thing six times in twenty minutes," she says, sliding a tray of croissants into the case. "If you stare any harder, you're going to invent new bars of signal."

You look up from where you are portioning cookie dough.

"I'm not checking it that much."

She gives you a look.

You cave. "Okay, maybe a bit."

Theo wanders in from the back with a coffee and catches the tail end of it.

"He texted," he asks.

"Not yet."

That tiny phrase hangs in the air too long.

Not yet.

As if that is better than no.

As if that means the universe owes you later.

Maya's expression softens.

"He will," she says, quiet enough that it does not sound like false hope. "And if he doesn't right on schedule, that probably means he is busy, not dead."

Theo winces. "That was very comforting until the end."

"It's true," she says.

It is.

That is the problem.

The first night the message does not come, you tell yourself not to be dramatic.

You go home after close with flour on your sleeves and an ache between your shoulder blades from carrying too much by yourself. You let yourself into the house and the quiet hits a little harder than it did yesterday.

His boots are not by the door.

No half drunk tea on the sideboard. No jacket over the chair. No voice from upstairs asking what is for dinner.

You make pasta because the motions are familiar. You eat half of it standing at the counter because sitting at the table feels too pointed when there is no one across from you.

At ten fifteen, you check your phone.

Nothing.

At ten thirty, you carry the plate to the sink.

At ten forty, you open the fridge and decide to make pastry cream for tomorrow because there is milk to use and because your hands need something to do.

At ten fifty, you look again.

Still nothing.

By eleven you are elbow deep in dough you do not need.

The kitchen is warm. Too warm. The mixer hums. The radio talks to itself in the corner. You are making a second tray of pastries for a morning that was already covered because the alternative is standing still with your phone in your hand and hearing your own thoughts too clearly.

You check every ten minutes without meaning to.

At eleven ten.

Eleven twenty.

Eleven thirty.

No message.

Your chest starts doing that ugly little tightening thing. Not panic exactly. Worse in some ways. Familiar dread, shaped like all the doors in your life that did not open when they were supposed to.

You are halfway through brushing egg wash over dough you are not even excited about when your phone buzzes.

Your heart jumps into your throat so fast you nearly drop the brush.

You snatch it up.

Not Simon.

Johnny.

You stare at the screen.

A meme in the 141 group chat (plus you) that exists mostly so Johnny can be insufferable and Gaz can react with one dry sentence every forty eight hours.

It is a terrible photo of a raccoon in tactical goggles with the caption if not operator why operator shaped.

You make a weird noise that is halfway between a laugh and a cry.

The stupidest, smallest relief moves through you.

Johnny is alive enough to send nonsense.

Which means, probably, the world has not completely fallen apart.

You type back before you can second guess yourself.

Tell your captain his men are posting memes instead of texting their wives.

Johnny replies instantly.

OHHHH SHE USED THE W WORD

Ghost is gonna faint

Gaz sends one message ten seconds later.

He's busy. Don't spiral.

The fact that Gaz clocked it through one line of text makes you want to throw your phone and kiss it at the same time.

You set it down slowly on the counter and press both hands to the edge until your pulse settles.

He is busy.

Not gone.

Busy.

That has to be enough for tonight.

The message from Simon finally comes at one twelve in the morning.

Late.

Too late for your nerves.

Alive. Sorry. Long one.

No heart.

No extra line.

You stare at the three words and want to kiss him and throttle him both.

You send back:

Okay. Home is still here. Go to sleep if you can.

This time it says delivered.

You stand there in the kitchen, surrounded by pastries no one asked for, and let yourself breathe.

The next morning, you nearly cry in the walk in.

Not because of Simon.

Because the shelf in the corner finally gives up after threatening it for six months and dumps two bins of chocolate chips and one box of cupcake liners onto the floor in a plastic avalanche.

You just stand there in the refrigerated air and look at it.

The absurdity.

The timing.

The fact that your husband is somewhere in a war shaped problem and you are ten seconds from losing your mind over baking supplies.

Then Maya opens the door behind you, takes one look at your face, and says, "Oh no. Absolutely not. We are not having a breakdown over paper goods."

You laugh and burst into tears at the same time.

She sighs, steps over a fallen bin, and hugs you right there in the fridge.

"Okay," she says into your hair. "There it is. Get it out. Then we fix the shelf and feed everyone sugar."

You cry for exactly one minute and forty seconds, which feels efficient.

Then you wipe your face on your sleeve and say, "I hate this."

She nods. "I know."

"I hate not knowing anything."

"I know."

"I hate that a meme from Johnny can determine whether I breathe normally."

"That is deeply upsetting," she agrees. "And also weirdly on brand."

That drags another laugh out of you.

Theo appears at the door with a drill ten minutes later because he heard the shelf gave out and clearly that is a task to be conquered.

For one hour, your whole world becomes bolts and brackets and whether the right size anchor is in the toolbox.

It helps.

That is what surprises you.

The fixing.

The practical little task.

The way your body unclenches slightly when your hands are occupied with something you can actually solve.

By lunchtime the shelf is steadier than it has ever been and you have flour on your jeans and one less reason to cry in a fridge.

You decide that counts as a win.

The call from Price comes on a Thursday.

You are out front, restocking napkins and pretending not to know the exact minute Simon usually squeezes in a message. The bakery is between rushes. Theo is in the back decorating a birthday cake with alarming concentration. Maya is in the office pretending to do payroll and actually online shopping.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

Your heart seizes.

You answer it too quickly. "Hello."

There is static first.

Then Price's voice, roughened by bad connection and exhaustion.

"Me."

You have never been so relieved to hear a man who once lectured Simon about proper tea storage.

"Hi, John."

The line crackles. Somewhere behind him there is wind, or engines, or both.

You grip the counter so hard your fingers ache.

"Is he okay?"

A pause.

Then, very carefully, "They're busy. They're alright. Hold fast."

The words settle into you in layers.

Busy. Alright.

Not detailed.

Not comforting enough to stop your pulse from skittering.

But enough.

More than enough, given what he is allowed to say.

You close your eyes for a second.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Another rustle of static.

"Couldn't get everyone a signal," Price says. "Thought you should hear a voice, not just wait on a screen."

Your throat tightens so suddenly you cannot speak for a second.

"Thank you," you say again, stronger this time.

There is a small sound on the line that might be his version of affection.

"He'll text when he can," Price says. "Don't start writing his eulogy because MacTavish forgot his charger and your husband got stuck carrying the team's collective competence."

Despite yourself, a little laugh escapes you.

"That bad?"

"Worse," Price says dryly. "Take care of yourself."

"You too."

The line dies.

You stand there with the phone still against your ear for a few seconds after the call ends.

Maya appears in the archway to the kitchen.

"That him."

"Captain," you say.

Her whole face softens. "And."

You put the phone down carefully.

"They're busy," you say. "They're alright. He said hold fast."

She nods once, like she understands exactly what that phrase costs and offers all at once.

"Okay," she says. "Then we hold fast."

That becomes your thing.

Not an official mantra, because that would be embarrassing.

But a private little instruction.

Hold fast.

You write it in the margin of your planner next to supplier deadlines and payroll reminders. You think it while locking up. While making coffee. While sweeping under tables at the end of the day.

Not sit still.

Not stop feeling.

Hold fast.

There is a difference.

You start making choices on purpose.

Not because the fear is gone.

Because it is not.

Because if you let it, it will sit in the middle of your chest and eat every hour he is away.

So you plan around it.

You build a new seasonal menu on Sunday afternoon with your laptop open and six failed scone recipes spread around you like a crime scene. Pumpkin maple turns out too sweet. Blackberry thyme is nearly perfect. Salted honey butter cookies make Theo swear eternal devotion to you and to dairy.

You repaint the chipping shelf in the front display between customer rushes because the sight of it had been bothering you for months and now it bothers you enough to fix.

You finally sort the wedding cards into a keepsake box instead of leaving them in a sentimental stack on the sideboard.

You water Percy on a schedule instead of by panic and vibes.

When Maya tells you to put on lipstick and leave the house on Friday night, you almost say no.

The almost matters.

A month ago, maybe even a week ago, you would have curled on the couch in one of Simon's shirts with your phone in your hand and told yourself it was loyalty.

Now you hear Price's voice. Hold fast.

That is not the same thing as holding still.

So you go.

Nothing wild. Just drinks with Maya and Jules and Theo at the little wine bar three streets over. You wear a sweater dress Simon likes and boots you can walk in and your wedding ring because somehow the weight of it is reassuring in public too.

You laugh.

Actually laugh.

Theo tells a story about a customer who thought macarons were "too emotional" and nearly makes you spit your drink. Maya steals the olives off everyone's plates. Jules shows you the candid wedding photo again and makes you all emotional in public.

You check your phone twice in two hours.

Both times, nothing.

But the nothing does not own the night.

That feels like progress.

When you get home, there is a message waiting.

Late. Short. Typical.

Alive. Miss your face.

You smile so hard it hurts.

You send back:

Still attached to my face. Very thoughtful of me.

Three minutes later, another one.

Keep it that way. Need it when I get home.

You sit on the edge of your bed in your boots and coat and laugh softly into the quiet room.

Not because it is funny exactly.

Because it is him.

Still there.

Still himself inside the silence.

There are still bad moments.

Moments where the bakery door swings open and your body braces before your mind catches up.

Moments where the house is too quiet and the wrong sort of memory tries to settle in your bones.

Moments where you wake at two in the morning and the space beside you is too cold and too empty and you have to physically stop yourself from checking your phone under the covers like a teenager.

But fear stops being the only thing in the room.

That is the shift.

It sits in one chair, not every chair.

One afternoon, when the post lunch lull settles and the display case is half empty and the sky outside has gone silvery with rain, you stand behind the counter with flour on your hands and realise you are okay in this exact second.

Not okay forever.

Not okay enough to stop wanting him home.

Just okay enough to breathe all the way in and out without checking a screen.

You think maybe that is what resilience actually is.

Not heroism.

Not grace under pressure.

Just making a loaf of bread while your heart is scared and not letting the fear knead itself into every bite.

Maya catches you smiling at nothing and narrows her eyes.

"What."

You shrug. "Nothing. I just..."

You glance around the bakery. At the trays. The chalkboard menu. Theo in the back doing his dramatic icing flourish. Jules counting till numbers under her breath.

At your life.

At the thing you are holding while he is gone.

"I think I'm learning," you say.

"Dangerous," Maya replies.

You laugh.

"Maybe."

Your phone buzzes in your apron pocket.

Your stomach flips anyway. It probably always will.

You pull it out.

Not Simon.

Gaz, in the group chat.

Photo attachment.

It is blurry, badly lit, and clearly taken against someone's wishes. Johnny asleep sitting upright with his mouth open, head tipped back against a wall. Simon is half in frame beside him, eyes closed, arms folded, boots dusty, looking more tired than you like and more real than any posed photo could ever manage.

Gaz's message underneath says only:

They're both alive. Unfortunately.

Your hand flies to your mouth.

Relief hits so fast your knees almost soften.

Maya sees your face and comes around the counter before you can even call her.

"What."

You turn the phone so she can see.

Her eyes widen. Then she laughs, hand covering her own mouth.

"Jesus. Men."

"Men," you agree, voice shaky.

You look at the photo again.

His face.

Dust and tired and alive.

The fear is still there.

It just does not own every square of your day anymore.

You lock your phone and tuck it away.

Then you pick up the tray of blackberry thyme scones and head back to work.

💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰

✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨

Not the glass one above the range this time. The real office. Door shut. No interruptions. No room for jokes.

Simon knows what it is before the file even hits the desk.

The weight of it.

The way Price looks when he is carrying orders that matter.

"This is it," Price says.

No warm up.

No softening.

He flips the folder open and turns it so Simon can see.

Maps. Satellite images. Names he already knows. Places he does not want to know better. Strings of intel that have finally stopped being background noise and started lining up into something ugly and deliberate.

Makarov's shadow is all through it.

Not rumour now.

Not a maybe.

Active movement. Confirmed links. The sort of op that stops being hypothetical the second your captain says the word window and means deployment, not planning.

"How long," Simon asks.

Price's jaw shifts.

"Initial projection is six weeks," he says. "Longer if it snowballs. We'll be in and out of multiple sites. It's not a one hit. It's the real thing."

Simon looks down at the pages.

Six weeks.

Could be more.

Not training. Not a local support job. Not a run where he can be home in time for tea and bad telly and your feet in his lap.

A real one.

He feels Ghost straighten in him.

Sharp. Focused. Almost relieved to finally have a shape to point at.

He also feels Simon, husband, homeowner, man with your ring line burned into his finger, want to swear until the walls shake.

"Dates," he says.

Price names them.

Hard dates.

Wheels up in four days.

Simon is quiet long enough that Price looks at him properly.

"You alright," he asks.

"No," Simon says honestly. "But I'm here."

Price nods once.

"That'll have to do."

There is a beat.

Then, because Price is still Price even when the room is all steel and files and consequences, he adds, "Go home and tell your wife before MacTavish finds out and tries to break it to her with a balloon."

That nearly gets a laugh out of him.

Nearly.

He does not tell you right away.

Not because he wants to hide it.

Because he wants, for half an hour, to pretend the evening is still yours.

You are in the kitchen when he gets home, sleeves shoved up, flour on one forearm, arguing softly with a bowl of dough like it can hear you.

"There is no earthly reason for you to be this sticky," you mutter. "I have done nothing to deserve this."

He stands in the doorway for a second and watches you.

The house is warm. The radio is on low. There is a little notepad by the fruit bowl with half a grocery list and your handwriting all over it. Percy is in the window catching the last of the light like his life depends on it.

Home.

You look up and smile the second you see him.

"You're late," you say, but you are already coming over for a kiss.

He takes it.

Lets himself have that first.

Your mouth is soft and familiar. Your hands slide up into his hair. He could lose a week just standing here with you if someone let him.

When you pull back, you clock his face.

Your smile slips.

"What happened?"

There it is.

No easing into it. No chance to pretend.

He exhales through his nose.

"Orders came through," he says.

The room changes.

You feel it. He sees you feel it.

You do not panic. That is the first thing he loves you for in this moment. You do not go pale and flinch and make him carry your fear on top of his own. You just get very still.

"Okay," you say. "How bad."

He reaches for your hand automatically and guides you to the kitchen table. You sit across from each other, fingers still linked over the wood.

"It's a real one," he says. "Longer. Makarov linked. We've got hard dates now."

Your face stays composed for exactly one heartbeat longer than usual. Then your thumb tightens around his.

"When."

He tells you.

Your mouth presses into a line.

"Four days," you repeat.

"Yeah."

You look down at your joined hands. At the rings.

Then back up at him.

"How long?"

"Six weeks on paper," he says. "Could be more."

You nod once, sharply, like if you can make your body obey then the rest of you will follow.

"Okay," you say again.

He hates that word already.

"Love."

"No, let me," you say quickly.

He shuts up.

You take one breath. Then another. Your eyes look brighter, but they stay dry.

"Okay," you say a third time, steadier now. "Then we plan."

That nearly breaks him more than if you had cried.

Because there it is. The difference. The thing that changed with the wedding. You are not girlfriend hearing bad news in a borrowed flat. You are wife at a kitchen table in your own house, reaching automatically for the notebook.

He watches you stand, pull it from the counter, flip it open to a blank page.

You write three words at the top in neat block letters.

Before He Leaves

He feels something fierce and painful and impossible move in his chest.

"Bills," you say, half to yourself now. "Auto pay is set on most of it but I want the passwords in one place. Bakery order schedule. Staff rota. Mrs Talbot can keep an extra eye on close if I ask her. Your spare key with Maya in case something goes wrong with the house."

He gets up and comes around the table to sit beside you instead.

You slide the notebook between you.

"Tell me what you need me to know," you say.

He looks at the page.

At your pen.

At the calm way your hand waits.

"I need you to lock the back door when you're in the kitchen," he says. "Even if you're only gone from the front five minutes. No bins alone. No walking home late if I'm not there. Call Johnny or Gaz or me if I'm reachable. And if none of us answer, call Price. Don't care if it's two in the mornin'."

You nod and write as he speaks.

"Okay."

"I need the alarm set every night."

"Okay."

"And if that creep comes back into the bakery, you don't engage. Staff deal with him, or the police do. Not you alone."

That one makes your jaw tighten, but you nod.

"Okay."

He reaches for the pen then, scribbling his own list beneath yours. Insurance details. Unit contact number. Where the extra cash is. Which neighbour has the ladder? The code to the lockbox in the utility room.

Practical things.

The sort of things that make the leaving real in a boring, devastating way.

When the page is full, you both stare at it.

Your handwriting loops around his.

The shape of marriage, reduced to ink and logistics and shared panic management.

You close the notebook and press your palm to the cover.

"Okay," you say softly. "Now I can be upset."

He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

"Come here."

You do.

He folds you into him right there in the kitchen, standing between the table and the counter, your face tucked into his neck.

This time you do shake.

Not with sobs. Not dramatically. Just a quiet tremor that runs through you once and then again.

He holds on tighter.

"I know," he murmurs into your hair. "I know."

"I hate it," you whisper.

"I know."

"I know what I signed up for," you say, voice fraying a little. "I know I did. I'm not taking it back. I just... hate it."

He closes his eyes.

"Yeah," he says. "Me too."

The days before he leaves are all lists and little rituals.

At base, Ghost and Simon pull in opposite directions.

Ghost likes the clarity of a real job.

The body knows what to do with purpose. With kit checks and route plans and fresh intel. The hours sharpen him. He sleeps lighter. Thinks cleaner. Notices more.

Simon hates every second he is not at home.

He finds himself checking his phone between drills, not because you are needy. Because he is. Because a photo of Percy in the sink or a badly lit shot of your lunch on the bakery counter feels like proof that the house is still there while he is being turned into a weapon again.

Johnny notices.

Of course he does.

They are in the locker room after a long day, half dressed, half feral, when Simon checks his phone for the third time in ten minutes.

Johnny looks over from the bench.

"Message from the missus," he asks.

Simon grunts.

Gaz, towelling his hair dry, snorts. "He's gone all soft. Give him another week and he'll be asking if his wife can come on deployment."

"She'd sort this place out in twenty minutes," Johnny says. "Better coffee, for one."

Simon slides the phone into his pocket and gives them both a look.

"Shut up."

Johnny grins. "See. Family man now."

The word lands strange and warm.

Not mocking. Not really.

They mean it.

That is the thing that catches him off guard.

Something about the wedding changed the way they say your name. You are not "the baker" anymore, not really. Not "your girl." Not "that sweet one from the flat."

You are family. That means something in the 141.

It means Johnny asks if you have enough people around while he is gone and does not pretend it is casual. It means Gaz quietly slips him a list of the security contacts he trusts near your end of town and says, "For peace of mind."

It means Price asks no stupid questions when Simon requests the final half day before wheels up.

He just signs the paper and says, "Go home."

At home, you pack him like you are building a spell.

The duffel lies open on the bed. His kit is already sorted, folded in those brutal practical lines you have come to recognise. Shirts. Socks. Unders. The ugly green things that never smell right even when washed. He packs his own work gear with quick efficiency, but the rest of it becomes yours.

You tuck in more things this time.

More deliberately.

Not random comfort. Anchors.

A fresh notebook with a pen clipped to the front.

He picks it up and looks at you.

"What's this?"

You smooth your hand over the duvet.

"For things you want to tell me when you get back," you say. "Stuff you can't text. Stuff you think of and do not want to lose."

His face goes unreadable for a second. Then very soft.

He sets it down in the bag like it is something breakable.

You add a little tin of butter tarts, wrapped individually so they will survive the journey.

"Those won't," he says.

"I know," you say. "That's why you'll eat them first."

"Bossy."

"You married me."

More lemon bars, of course. Packed better than last time.

A pair of warm socks you know he will pretend not to need and wear anyway.

A photo from the wedding that you almost did not include because it felt too on the nose. Then you looked at the way he was looking at you in it and decided he could cope.

He watches you tuck it into a side pocket with that same expression from the bedroom door. Like he is watching you build something bigger than a bag out of sugar and paper and stubbornness.

"What," you ask when the silence stretches.

He shakes his head.

"Nothin'."

"Liar."

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.

"You make it hard to leave," he says quietly.

You go still.

"Good," you say after a second. "That's sort of the point."

His mouth twitches, but his eyes stay sad.

You go to him and stand between his knees, hands on his shoulders.

"You're not leaving because you want to," you say. "You're leaving because this is part of what it means to be you. I know that. I am not going to stand here and act abandoned because I knew who I was marrying."

He rests his forehead lightly against your stomach.

"It still feels like I'm walking away from something I should be protecting."

You thread your fingers through his hair.

"You are protecting it," you murmur. "Just in a way I wish I liked more."

His hands settle on your hips.

You stand there in the quiet a while. The bag open beside you. The ring on your hand catching the low bedroom light every time you move.

"Say it," you say softly after a while.

He tilts his head back to look at you.

"What?"

"The thing you're not saying."

His face tightens.

Then he says it.

"I'm afraid to leave you," he says. "There. Happy."

Your chest hurts.

"No," you say honestly. "But thank you."

He looks away, then back.

"Ghost is fine," he says. "Ghost likes having a target. Ghost understands the shape of the work. Simon..." He huffs. "Simon keeps thinkin' about the back door lock and whether Percy's getting enough light and whether some prick from your shop decides to be brave because I'm not physically here to stare him down."

You smile despite yourself.

"Percy's a plant."

"He's your plant."

That does something very bad to your heart.

You bend and kiss him, slow and soft.

"I've got the house," you say against his mouth. "I've got the bakery. I've got your side of the bed and your stupid mugs and your weird tea order. You go do what you have to do. I'll hold this."

His eyes shut.

When they open again they are bright.

"Wife," he says, like a prayer and a wound.

"Yeah," you whisper. "That's me."

The night before he leaves is not mournful.

Heavy, yes.

Tender, yes.

But there is a steadiness under it all that did not exist in the early days. Something rooted.

You eat dinner at the table. Real plates. Real forks. Candle because you lit one without thinking and neither of you blew it out. You talk about practical things until you cannot bear another practical thing. Then you talk about nonsense on purpose. Johnny's inevitable attempt to steal something from the transport plane. Whether Gaz has ever smiled with his full face in public. The fact that Percy really does look better on the kitchen sill than the bedroom one.

You both laugh.

That helps.

When the dishes are done, the house goes quiet around you in that strange pre departure way. Every room starts to feel outlined. The packed bag by the door. The boots lined up underneath the hook. His phone charging on the counter.

You are brushing your teeth when he comes up behind you.

His hands slide over your hips and just stay there, warm and heavy.

You look at his reflection in the mirror.

His face is tired already. The kind of tired that comes from bracing for tomorrow before today is even over.

"You alright," you ask.

He nods once. Then shakes his head.

"Come here," he says.

You spit, rinse, set your toothbrush down, and turn in his arms.

The kiss starts quiet.

His mouth on yours, his body pressed close, the familiar soap and skin and Simon of him filling your senses.

Then it changes.

Not violent. Not careless.

Just fuller. Hungrier. Like he has too much in his hands and nowhere safe to put it except on you, into you, through you.

You feel it in the way his fingers tighten at your waist. In the way he kisses you deeper, almost immediately. In the little sound he makes when you drag your nails lightly over the back of his neck.

"Bedroom," you murmur against his mouth.

He shakes his head.

"No," he says, rough. "Here first."

Your pulse jumps.

This is not your first time against a sink or a counter or a wall. Married life apparently came with an aggressive appreciation for horizontal and vertical surfaces alike. But tonight there is a charge in him that feels different. Less playful. More like he is trying to leave pieces of himself everywhere before he goes.

"Okay," you whisper.

He strips your shirt off first, hands not quite steady. His own follows. Then your trousers and underwear, then his. Clothes hitting tile one by one, discarded without neatness.

When he lifts you onto the vanity counter, the cold stone kisses the backs of your thighs and you gasp.

"Sorry," he mutters automatically, and kisses the sound away.

He checks in anyway. Always.

"You good."

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

That seems to steady him just enough.

He kisses down your throat while his hand slips between your thighs, working you open with the kind of certainty that makes your knees fall wider without thought. You cling to his shoulders, already breathless, already wanting.

"Missed this," he says against your skin. "Going to miss this."

You catch his face between your hands and make him look at you.

"Then have it," you say.

Something in his expression cracks.

He pushes into you with a low, wrecked sound and you both go still for a second, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

The rhythm he finds is a little rougher than usual. Not punishing. Not angry. But there is too much emotion in his body and it comes out in the strength of his hands, the way he pulls you close to meet every thrust, the way his mouth keeps seeking yours like he cannot bear the space.

You hold on just as hard.

At some point your nails are digging crescents into his shoulders and his name is the only word left in your mouth.

When it gets too much in this position, too much standing and counter and his knees surely going to give eventually, he carries you to bed without breaking the kiss.

He lays you down and follows immediately, hands all over you, like if he stops touching you for one second he will lose the thread.

This time you roll him.

His eyes go wide for a second as you push him onto his back and climb over him, hair falling around your shoulders, ring glinting in the lamp light as you brace a hand on his chest.

"Let me see you," you say softly. "Need to."

His throat works.

"Alright."

You take him in slowly, watching his face the whole way.

That is what you want tonight. Not darkness. Not your cheek pressed into the pillow while he grits his teeth into your shoulder.

This.

His eyes on yours.

His mouth falling open a little as you sink down.

The way his hands land on your hips with reverence first and then need.

"Christ," he whispers.

You move over him slowly at first, feeling every inch, every breath, every tremor of restraint in the muscles of his stomach.

He watches you like a dying man watches a light go on.

You know exactly what he is doing.

Memorising.

The line of your body over his. The way your mouth parts when you find the right angle. The bounce of your hair against your shoulders. The sound you make when he sits up just enough to mouth at your breast.

He reaches for your ring once, just brushes his thumb over it where your hand is planted on his chest.

"You're my wife," he says, like he still cannot quite believe it.

"Yes," you say, voice breaking around the word. "I am."

He groans and his hands flex, guiding your hips harder.

The pace picks up.

The bed creaks. Your breath comes quicker. The pressure builds and builds.

He is losing control, and you can feel him fighting to hold onto the moment long enough to store it somewhere deep.

You put your hand in his hair and pull lightly.

"Come back to me," you whisper.

His eyes snap to yours.

"Always," he says.

That almost undoes you on the spot.

You come first, shuddering, your body clenching hard around him as his name spills from your mouth.

He follows with a broken sound, hands locked on your waist, forehead pressed to yours so hard it almost hurts.

"I will come back to you," he whispers.

Not maybe.

Not if.

A vow, not a guarantee.

You kiss him through the aftershocks.

"I know," you whisper back, even though that is not exactly true. Even though no one knows.

But you know this. That he will try. That he means it. That he is pouring every piece of himself into the promise because it is the only thing he can control.

Afterward, you lie tangled under the covers, your head on his chest, his fingers combing through your hair in slow absent lines.

The packed bag waits by the door.

Morning is already on its way, no matter how much you both pretend otherwise.

You keep your palm over his heart until sleep finally takes you, and he stays awake longer than you do, counting every breath.

💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰💀🖤🍰

✨ Want to be added to the taglist? ✨

Grilled chicken. Chicken and rice casserole. Lasagna. Stuffed bell peppers.

It’s enough to tide your husband over. Not enough to make you forget.

It doesn’t last nearly as long as it should.

You debate it. Biting your lips raw and crossing your arms behind your back, pacing in front of your empty fridge. You could go during the day, be greeted by the sweet gentleman you’ve grown to know at the butcher in the mornings. The one who doesn’t have blood on his apron or wear a scowl. The one you should’ve only ever known.

You don’t even visit the bunny in your backyard, afraid that the animal will make your chest twist and give you some sort of confidence again.

The risk of Simon being there is enough to make you walk past the shop entrance entirely. You settle on the local market down the street instead, tucking your purchases to the side when you walk past Simon’s again with a bag full of frozen meat. Hiding it from him as if he’ll see you buying from a different shop. Like you owe any sense of loyalty to him.

You don’t look through the glass when you walk by. Eyes straight, fingers tight. You don’t even go to the flower shop.

You make beef stew that night.

The beef doesn’t taste as good. It’s tough, takes you several bites of grinding your molars to eat a mouthful. You blame it on your cooking. You cooked it for too long or on a setting too high. You didn’t let it simmer enough in your crockpot or didn’t season it right.

Maybe it’s all in your head.

Your husband eats it with a grimace on his face, nose scrunched up as his teeth stab through the meat. His hair’s still well-kempt, gelled down to the side. Tie hanging off the back of the chair along with his blazer. You wonder if he’s finally had enough respect to straighten himself out before he came home to you or if he just didn’t see someone else in his office today.

You don’t go to his office. He doesn’t invite you. You don’t want to be.

You’re not allowed to see that world. He goes to work events all on his own. You watch him peel off from the driveway on those rare occasions, left wondering if any of them even know he has a wife at home. If he’s too embarrassed to even confess he’s married to someone like you.

You try to watch him eat, watch the way his lips form around his fork or the pink color of his tongue, force yourself to feel something other than disgust when the juice collects at the corners of his lips.

“Tastes like shit.” He grunts. You’re not even surprised.

“I got the meat from the market.”

“The hell did ya do that for?” He scoffs, food falling from his mouth.

“I was already there, so it was easier.” You have to look away from him to stop yourself from gagging.

“Well don’t do it again.”

You nod, gulping down the bile at your throat. He doesn’t know he’s pushing you closer to the beast.

That night when your face is buried in the sheets and your husband’s grunting above you; you imagine Simon instead.

When morning comes, you grant your husbands wish, and walk the familiar path to Simon’s. It’s early enough you know he won’t be there, sun barely shining through the clouds. Still, when you arrive, you peer through the window, searching for his shaved head just in case.

You don’t know why you feel disappointed when you see a head full of hair.

You give the beef stew a second try. A devotion to cook Simon’s meat better than the markets.

That night, your husband’s not happy when he comes home, slamming the door, and kicking his shoes off. You stay silent, straightening your back, and prepare yourself, turning around with the same tight lip smile.

“Went to the butcher today. Made the beef stew just the way you like it.”

His eyes slit. “Why the hell would you cook me the same dinner?”

You pause where you stand, holding a warm bowl of stew between your palms.

“Well, I thought I was doing something you would like.”

His hand flings forward, smacking the bowl out of your hands. The hot liquid spills down your hands and splatters across your clothes. The glass bowl breaks, shards shattering on the floor, as you gasp from the burn.

“You don’t know shit.”

He stands up, grunting under his breath that he’s going to find dinner somewhere else.

You don’t let yourself cry, not when you have to run cold water over your hands, not while you’re on your hands and knees picking up the pieces of glass, not when you have to scrub the floor, not when you’re left to eat dinner alone.

Your hands don’t even shake when you wash your clothes, steady and focused. Determined for the first time in days.

Your legs take you to the entrance of the butcher shop before you’ve even had time to think or put your clothes in the dryer. Puffing clouds of air with stinging cheeks and ears. You didn’t even put on a coat.

You see him through the fogged glass, big and brute.

He looks up when you walk in.

“Hi.” You whisper.

The corner of his lips curves.

“Hi. How’s your forehead?”

“It’s okay.”

“No concussion?” He jokes.

You shake your head, “Barely a bruise.”

“Glad to hear. What did you need?”

“Nothing.” You say, digging through your bag. “I brought you something.”

He tilts his head.

“I cooked dinner for my husband, but he didn’t want it and well,” You avoid eye contact, placing the container on the counter. “I thought I would pay you back for dealing with my accident the other day.”

There’s a brief pause of silence; it makes your skin crawl, looking up to ramble some more, hoping it doesn’t sound as horrid as it does.

“You brought me the dinner you made for your husband?”

You look at him shocked, lips parting, “Well, that's not how I meant it. I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea—“

You reach for it, but he beats you to it, snatching it from the countertops before you even get a chance.

“I want it.” He doesn’t give you room to disagree.

You just nod, let him lead you to the back again. This time you stand against the steel table. This time there’s no head injury.

“Don’t you get cold in here?”

He chuckles, “Does the princess need a sweater?”

“No,” You ignore the name. “You only ever wear a t-shirt.”

“You don’t have a sweater on either.” He points to your chest.

“Forgot it.”

He raises his brow, but he doesn’t comment on it more.

“Got enough muscle to warm me up.”

You inhale.

“Yeah.”

You look away when his lips curl into a smirk.

“Never had a customer cook me my own meat.” He opens the container, steam rising from the top despite the cold walk over.

“Probably never had a customer smack their head on that glass.”

“Never that.”

You watch him put it to his lips, bare hands and all. You should look away.

You don’t.

It should disgust you, the way he dips his fingers into the broth.

It doesn’t.

You think about your husband, for a split second. You couldn’t even fathom staring at him for more than a few seconds without repulsion curling acidicly in your throat. And yet, you can’t look away from Simon.

He eats like a dog, messy and greedy, groaning around each bite like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. Crooked canines tearing through each piece of meat almost savagely.

A man starved.

It drops down his fingers and chin. Just like it had when you were alone. You swallow around the desire building in your mouth. It’s like you can almost taste him, licking your lips for remnants you might’ve missed.

Your palms are sweaty, despite how cold it is. Flesh practically scorching when he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks. You stare wide-eyed and unblinking as he pulls them out with a wet smack.

When he finally looks at you, his eyes are heavy.

You almost forget to breath.

Don’t you know you’re not supposed to feed strays?

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