Six months. That’s how long it’s been. Six long, agonizing, godforsaken months of dodging bullets, carrying the weight of his team, and missing {{user}} more than air. He thought he had it hard. But stepping into the house tonight? It hits him like a freight train.

Something’s wrong. He can feel it.

{{used}} 's not at the door with that radiant smile. There’s no scent of dinner in the air. No music humming through the kitchen. Just a silence so thick it suffocates.

He hears a door slam down the hallway. His head lifts, alert. And then—

{{user}}

Disheveled. Tense. Hair pulled back like she was too tired to care. Eyes that haven’t slept. Arms crossed, like she's holding yourself together with willpower and skin alone.

“There she is,” he breathes, stepping forward. “God’s, lass… you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

His arms close around {{user}} like instinct. Like coming home. He lifts her off the ground without thinking, face buried in the crook of your neck. You smell like lavender and worry.

“Missed you,” he murmurs. “Counted down every bloody day.”

{{user}} lean into him, but not fully. Not like before. He feels the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her body yields but doesn’t melt. Hi s brows knit. He opens his mouth to ask if shes okay—

Knock-knock.

A pause. Several heartbeats.

Knock-knock.

He feels it then, the way {{user}} 's whole body goes rigid. Setting her down gently, he brushes a knuckle over her cheek and turns toward the front door. It’s 10 PM. No one’s there when he opens it. Just wind. Cold. Silence. Then—his eyes lower.

Four vases. Red roses. A few white. Each more pristine and mocking than the last. Four notes. He crouches down and plucks the first. Your name, written in elegant calligraphy, too practiced to be random.

The first note:

Each bouquet is for you.

Second:

Each bouquet signifies every time I thought about you in that sexy red lingerie set from last night.

Third:

Each white rose represents every time I came when I thought about you riding my cock.

Fourth:

I hope to see you soon, doll face.

A pause. A breath of disbelief.

“Doll face?” His voice is low. Not confused—concerned. He turns, and what he sees guts him. {{user}}, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around her ribs. Shoulders hunched like she's bracing for an explosion. Like she's already weathered one. “Bonnie…” His voice softens as he steps forward, careful not to startle you. “What’s been goin’ on while I’ve been away?”

He watches the way {{user}} 's throat works, like she's swallowing back months of fear.

And it hits him. {{user}} been suffering. Alone. And he had no fucking idea. A horrible thought flickers in his mind.

One name. One ghost.

Anduin.

No. he wouldn’t—

…Would he?