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4. He notices your exhaustion immediately.

Doesn’t comment on it. Just slides a chair closer with his boot so you don’t have to stand.

5. Coffee appears without discussion.

Not made the way he likes it. Made the way you do. He doesn’t mention it. You notice.

6. He positions himself between you and the door.

Not consciously. Not dramatically. Just habit. Late hours mean low guard. He compensates.

7. If you speak, he listens fully.

No multitasking. No interruptions. His attention is absolute, like everything else has narrowed down to this room.

8. Fatigue makes him softer—but not careless.

His tone drops. His movements slow. The walls don’t come down; they just… bend.

9. He doesn’t initiate contact.

But if you sit close enough that your shoulders brush, he doesn’t move away. That’s the permission.

10. When the shift finally ends, he waits.

Doesn’t say why. Doesn’t need to. He walks you out like it’s routine—because if he makes it sound normal enough, maybe it is.

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4. small things give him away.

A clipped tone on comms. A heavier step beside you. The way his gaze lingers a second too long when the other guy leaves.

5. He avoids looking at you after.

Not because he’s angry at you—he’s angry at himself for feeling something so stupid. You’re teammates. That’s all.

6. When you check on him, he deflects.

“I’m fine.” Always the same answer. But his hands don’t stay still, and he won’t meet your eyes.

7. On missions, it slips through.

His protectiveness sharpens. A hand on your shoulder, pulling you back, standing too close. He tells himself it’s tactical. It isn’t.

8. He doesn’t talk about it, but everyone notices.

Soap teases him once. Just once. The silence that follows is enough to make sure it never happens again.

9. You thank him for watching your back.

He just nods, like it’s nothing. But that night, he stays awake longer than usual, thinking about the way you said his name.

10. He’ll never admit it.

Not to you, not to anyone. But if looks could burn, no one else could make you laugh like that.

---

October 9th.

—

It’s been a month since you and your husband, Simon, moved to the Scottish Highlands.

Retirement wasn't on his plans — not even close. The Task Force still called, and he still answered. But between deployments, this place was your quiet in the storm.

You lived in a dark, wooden house decorated with huge windows that offered a view of the forest.

Now, it's snowy.

But your husband? He isn't there.

---

October 8th.

—

A day before he left, you sat on the bed, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks as you watched him pack.

He had a mission the next morning — and the thought that he might not come back was enough to unravel you.

His hands moved automatically, stuffing things into the suitcase, trying not to look at your eyes — those eyes.

The same ones that always brimmed with pain each time you had to say goodbye, and with joy every time he returned, exhausted but alive.

You didn’t want him to ignore you. Not really.

But you knew he couldn’t afford to forget anything — not when his life depended on it.

So you sat there in silence, helping him double-check each item, even though your heart was somewhere else entirely.

He zipped the suitcase shut with that same finality that always made your stomach twist.

But instead of walking away, he sat down next to you. The mattress dipped under his weight.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just took off his gloves and reached for your hand, cold fingers brushing yours. You let him take it.

Outside, it had started snowing again. Slowly, silently — like the world itself was holding its breath.

It always snowed the night before he left.

Always.

His thumb moved slowly over your knuckles, as if memorizing them. And then, just barely above a whisper:

“I’ll come back.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t have to.

Because you knew it was true. He always returned to you.

So you waited. You waited for him to come back.

---

October 16th.

—

A week.

A week had passed since he left, and you swore it had been the longest week of your life. Well, to be honest, you always thought that whenever he went on long missions abroad.

It was 4 a.m. now, and you really couldn’t sleep. Sleeping was a pain in the ass for you when your husband was out there fighting for his life.

You lay under the blankets on your shared bed, an emptiness in your chest you just couldn’t shake off.

You had tried everything possible to relax: made yourself a tea, even took some of the pills that sometimes helped Simon sleep... but nothing worked.

So you ended up sprawled across the bed, sheets wrapped around your body as you imagined him lying there beside you. Every time your eyes watered, you thought about how he would tease you if he knew you were crying over him. The thought made you smile — and kept the tears from spilling.

But you had to rest. It was necessary if you wanted to make it to work tomorrow. It was still Thursday...

By 5 a.m., you finally drifted off.

You slept straight through until 9, when a sound woke you. A familiar one. Was that the door opening?

—

Ha, you wish... It was just your alarm. Time to get up for work.

A groan slipped from your lips as you smacked the phone shut.

You dragged yourself to the kitchen, made some toast, and started getting ready. It was going to be another long day without him.

You freshened up a bit to hide the bags under your eyes — you looked like a damn vampire right now. Hair a mess, still in your husband’s oversized white t-shirt and a pair of his black boxers.

You checked your phone — 9:30 a.m. No messages. No missed calls. Not that you expected any.

You pulled on a pair of jeans, a simple black tank top, and then his hoodie. It still smelled faintly of him — smoke, soap, and something colder. The scent hit you harder than you wanted to admit.

Your job had a dress code, and you had to stick to it — unfortunately.

When you were ready, you put on your makeup, staring at your reflection. For a second, you almost laughed, imagining Simon behind you, leaning on the doorframe, telling you you didn’t need any of it.

At least now you didn’t look like a vampire. That was progress.

—

By 10:15 a.m., you headed out. You had to be at work by 11, but since you lived on the outskirts of the city, it was a long commute.

The hours dragged. Work felt mechanical — answering questions, forcing smiles, moving through the motions. By the time you got home that evening, you were drained.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag by the door, and were halfway to the kitchen when your phone buzzed.

Your heart stopped.

Unknown number.

But you knew.

You answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” your voice cracked.

There was silence. A breath.

Then his voice — low, rough, but unmistakably his.

“Did you sleep at all last night?”

Your throat tightened. A laugh broke out of you, half relief, half despair.

“Barely. Thanks for asking, by the way.”

You could almost hear the faintest smile in his exhale.

“Good girl. Try harder tonight. I’ll be back before you know it.”

And just like that, the line went dead.

You stared at the phone, your chest aching but lighter than it had been in a week.

---

October 20th.

—

It’s snowing again. Of course it is.

You stand by the window, his hoodie wrapped around you, dogtags resting against your collarbone — cold against warm skin. You’ve worn them since he left; they’re your anchor, your proof that he’ll come back like he always does.

The world outside is white and silent. You breathe fog against the glass. For a moment, you close your eyes and imagine him there — the weight of his arm around you, the way he tucks his chin against the top of your head.

Then, a sound.

Footsteps.

Slow, heavy. Real.

Your eyes snap open. You don’t think. You just run.

The door swings open before you even reach it, snow and wind spilling inside.

He’s there.

Simon.

Cold, soaked, tired — but alive. His mask is off this time, eyes soft in the half-light. He drops his bag, doesn’t even speak. You throw yourself into him, and his arms close around you instantly, crushing you against him.

He buries his face in your neck, breath trembling.

“Told you I’d come back,” he mutters, voice muffled by your hair.

You can’t speak. You just nod against him, fingers fisting in the back of his jacket. The dogtags press between your chest and his, metal biting through warmth, grounding you both in the only truth that matters — he’s here.

Later, the two of you end up tangled and naked in bed. You’ve both shed the cold and the layers of the outside world. His hand rests against your waist, yours still clutching the tags against your heart.

“You kept them,” he murmurs, half-asleep.

You smile faintly. “Always.”

Outside, snow keeps falling — quiet, endless. His breathing slows, syncing with yours until the rhythm feels like one.

The tags clink softly when you shift closer, and you press a kiss to his chest, just above where his heart beats steady beneath your palm.

And for the first time in weeks, you finally sleep.

Snow keeps falling.

Soft, fragile, fleeting...

the kind of cold that burns,

the kind that hurts because it’s real.

And somewhere between the hush of winter and the warmth of his arms,

you finally understand why you love it so much.

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4. He mentally files this under “unacceptable proximity.”

You’re a teammate. You’re competent. You’re not supposed to be touching him. Even accidentally.

5. He debates waking you.

But you look exhausted. And he’s not heartless. So he lets you sleep. For now.

6. He shifts his posture 0.5 degrees.

Just enough to make it less intimate. Not enough to wake you. It’s a tactical adjustment, obviously.

7. He doesn’t speak until you wake up.

When you finally stir, he says nothing. Just a curt nod and a “You good?” like you didn’t just use him as a pillow for 40 minutes.

8. He avoids you for the rest of the day.

Not in a rude way—just professionally distant. Like he’s trying to reset the boundary without making it weird.

9. He never mentions it again.

Not to you. Not to the team. Not even in his own head. It didn’t happen. It was a tactical nap. That’s the story.

10. But next time, he sits one seat farther.

Just in case. Not because he’s uncomfortable. Just… preventative measures. Obviously.

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