He had always believed that if something terrible ever happened, it would happen somewhere else. Not here. Not to the people he loved. That was the quiet promise he made to himself when he joined the reserves—that if the world ever came apart, he would be close enough to stand in front of it. He was still learning what wisdom really was, still young enough to believe life would teach him gently. He didn’t yet know that some lessons arrive without asking.

Ann Morgan had been part of Tom Mitchell’s life for as long as he could remember—long before he ever thought to call it love. She was his sister’s best friend, the girl who spent more time in their house than her own, who knew where the cereal bowls were kept and which step on the staircase creaked if you weren’t careful. She had been stitched into the ordinary days of his childhood in a way that felt permanent even then.

Growing up, Tom never thought of her in romantic terms. She was safe. Familiar. Someone who belonged in the background of his life the way laughter did—always there, never questioned. It wasn’t until they were older that he realized how rare that kind of knowing really was. Some people fall in love after learning everything about each other. Tom and Ann fell in love after realizing they already had.

There was no dramatic moment when it changed. No sudden confession. Just the quiet understanding that came one evening as they walked home from a long day, talking about futures they used to imagine separately and now couldn’t picture apart. By the time either of them said it out loud, the truth had already settled in: this wasn’t fast love. This was long love that had finally found its name.

So when they married, people said it happened quickly. Tom only smiled at that. They hadn’t rushed anything—they had simply stopped pretending they were still deciding.

For a while, life stayed exactly the way Tom believed it should—close, familiar, steady. The kind of life you build when you think the future will arrive politely and introduce itself before it asks anything difficult of you.

They settled into marriage the way people do when they’ve already spent half their lives in each other’s orbit. Nothing felt new in a frightening way. It all felt new in the best way—like rediscovering something that had been yours all along. Ann still laughed the same way she always had, only now Tom noticed it more. Tom still carried himself with that quiet sense of responsibility, only now Ann understood what it cost him to do so.

Evenings became their favorite time. Sometimes they would sit on the porch steps, shoulder to shoulder, talking about nothing that needed solving—just small dreams. A house with a little space in the yard. A kitchen table that would one day have more chairs than it did now. Tom talked about staying in the reserves long-term, maybe picking up extra training, something that would keep him useful and close to home at the same time.

“I just want to be here,” he told her once, watching the sun sink behind the trees. “If anything ever happens ... I want to be close enough to do something about it.”

Ann leaned her head against his shoulder. “You already do.”

When Ann told him she was pregnant, Tom didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, his hands resting at his sides as if the world had paused and he was afraid to move in case it started again too quickly. Then he smiled—crooked, untested, proud in the way only a brand-new father can be.