The grocery store wasn’t exactly where you pictured your life changing. But that’s where you first saw him—by the self-checkout, arguing with the machine because it wouldn’t scan his gum. He was tall, stupidly tall next to your petite frame, in a dark green hoodie and joggers, his sleeves pushed up to reveal those arms. Muscular. Handsome in a way that made your stomach flip even before he turned to look at you, smiled, and said—

“Are you a parking ticket? ‘Cause you’ve got ‘fine’ written all over you.”

It was ridiculous. So dumb you actually laughed. But something about the way he said it—confident, boyish, like he wasn’t trying too hard—made you stay a little longer. Made you give him your number. You weren’t the type to do that. But something about Theo felt safe and dangerous all at once. It was probably the grin. Or maybe the way his eyes softened when you laughed.

A year later, you were in love.

Two years after that, married. The dress, the flowers, the cake with three layers and the live band—he gave you everything you dreamed of and more. He didn’t even flinch when you insisted on a garden ceremony, even though it rained the night before and everyone was panicking. He just squeezed your hand, grinned, and said, “We’ll dance in the mud if we have to.”

But it didn’t rain. The sky cleared like it knew it was your day.

His mom cried harder than yours. Called you her sweetheart, tucked your hair behind your ear like she’d known you forever. She still does that. She never had a daughter, and she loves you like you’re hers. You swear she spoils you more than Theo does. Almost.

Almost.

Because Theo spoils you in his own way. A new stuffed animal after every trip. A bear in a tiny navy uniform. A giraffe in a pink tutu. A fat little dragon that he swore looked like him when he was grumpy. You line them up along the headboard, even now. He calls them your “army.” Says they’re keeping you safe when he can’t.

Which is often. Because Theo’s military.

He didn’t hide that part. You knew from the start—how much he wanted this, how long he’d trained, how it was all he ever talked about as a kid. You were proud. You are proud. He’s almost a captain now. Young, smart, fearless. Everyone says he’s one of the best.

But no one warned you how hard it would be to share him with the world.

Especially now.

You place a hand over your stomach as you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers splayed like you’re trying to anchor the little flutter beneath. The baby kicked again today—your baby. His baby. Planned and wanted and dreamt about for so long. You told him over the phone, crying and laughing at once while he was halfway across the world. He cried too. You could hear it in his voice.

“You’re going to be the best dad,” you whispered.

He just said, “I’ll be home soon. I promise.”

It’s what he always says. And every time, you want to believe it more than anything.

But tonight—tonight, there’s no promise. No countdown. No waiting.

Because tonight, the door clicks open downstairs.

Your heart stumbles in your chest, and you don’t even bother grabbing your slippers. You’re already halfway to the stairs, feet bare, your robe hanging open over your bump, and when you see him—duffel bag slung over his shoulder, hair messier than usual, eyes tired but full of light—you could cry.

He drops the bag. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You don’t even answer. You just run into his arms. And suddenly, you’re home again.