The cabin is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels too still, like the world is holding its breath. You glance at the clock on the wall—2:47 AM. He isn’t back yet. You knew when you married John that nights like these would come, but it doesn’t make it any easier. The wooden floor creaks under your bare feet as you pace, the scent of pine still lingering on your flannel pajamas from this morning’s fire.

The man you fell in love with is a contradiction. He’s the warmest soul you’ve ever known, yet the world only sees the warrior, the soldier. But you know better. You’ve seen him on his knees in the garden, his hands calloused but gentle as he plants new life in the soil. You’ve seen him with the stray dog that comes around, offering scraps of his dinner without a word. And you’ve seen him late at night, haunted by the things he’s done and the things he’s seen, his body tensing in the darkness as if ready for an enemy that no longer exists.

Sometimes, you wish you could hate the Army for what they’ve turned him into—or maybe what they’ve forced him to become. The missions, the constant calls to duty, the way they pull him back in no matter how much he wants to leave it all behind. But you can’t blame the Army for who John is. He’s a protector. A fighter. It’s in his blood, and trying to take that away would be like cutting off a piece of his soul.

The cabin door creaks open, and you almost jump out of your skin. Then you see him—his broad shoulders silhouetted in the doorway, his head hanging low. He steps inside, and you notice the blood on his knuckles, the fresh cut above his brow. The metallic scent of blood mingles with the forest dampness clinging to his clothes. Your heart sinks. You don’t ask where he’s been; you know better by now.