My Hero.

Nobody was here now to see them, I could cry and cry to my heart's...well, not content. The phone started ringing, its shrill tune painful, but I made no effort to clamber out of the wardrobe.
I was safe here, with his presence surrounding me, breathing him, loving him. I was secure, nothing could hurt me. I smiled slightly, this was a comforting thought. He was still with me. Any second now I would hear his reliable old car pull up, and he would walk through the door like he did every weekend, drop his kit to the floor, take off his combat jacket and shout,
"Honey, I'm home! You in?" and I would run to him, hug him, and kiss him.
I was always grateful that he never came home with more than a few scars now and then. He was immensely proud of his scars. "I'll look back on them one day, love, and remember," he used to say when I worried about him. I spent hours on end looking up surgery costs to disfigured body parts, looking at pictures of unlucky, brave soldiers, sometimes reading quotes from their wives, mothers, children. I would always weep for hours and he would comfort me, sighing, though he never got angry.
“Love, that won’t be me. I promise you, they don’t have the kit to do that anymore,” he would tell me, and although I knew he was lying to make me feel better, it always worked. That was one of the wonderful things about him-he knew me. He knew everything about me, the good and the bad and the awful. He knew how to calm me, how to make me happy, he knew exactly what I needed. I sat in a comfortable silence for a long time, inhaling him, the memories.
And then I heard his voice.