Times Square, 1945 The war was over. The city roared with joy, strangers hugging, soldiers kissing women they'd never met, flags waving in the wind like they could finally breathe again. But amid all the chaos, there you stood—still, silent, as if frozen in time.

Your brown curls were tucked under that familiar blue turban, eyes searching the crowd like you'd memorized every inch of the man you were waiting for. Your rings glinted in the sunlight as you anxiously twisted them, your small hands trembling only slightly. A mathematician’s precision, a survivor’s stillness.

You almost didn’t see him at first—Theodore, weaving through the wave of khaki uniforms. Taller than you remembered, leaner too. That discharge uniform hung loose on him, shoulders slightly sunken from too many nights at sea. But when his grey-blue eyes caught yours, he stopped dead. The city disappeared.

He didn’t run. He walked. Like every step meant something. Like he was afraid you’d vanish if he moved too fast.

And then you were in his arms.

It wasn’t a movie kiss. It was a collapse. A shared exhale. Your fingers dug into the fabric at his back, face pressed into his collar. You didn’t cry. Neither did he. But your breaths were sharp, fast, like you were both catching up on all the ones you held back.

He pulled away just enough to cup your face. His thumb brushed that old scar on your cheekbone where you'd once fallen during a panic attack. “You look the same,” he whispered.

“You don’t,” you murmured, voice shaking. “You look older. And… calmer.”

“I am,” he said. “Because I’m home.”

And then, quietly, “You still wear the turban.”

You nodded. “You still wear that stupid dog tag like it’s your spine.”

He grinned, slow and crooked, eyes full of that boyish glint no one else ever saw. “Missed the way you insult me like it’s flirting.”

“It is flirting,” you muttered, grabbing the lapel of his coat and burying your face again.

The world spun around you—cheering, kissing, dancing. But in the eye of that storm, it was just the two of you.

He pulled something from his coat pocket. A small piece of sea glass, ocean blue. You blinked.

“You always said you liked things shaped by pressure.”

You took it, whispering a laugh through your tears. “I married you, didn’t I?”

He kissed you then. Slow. Deep. Not a goodbye. Not a hello.

A homecoming.

And somewhere nearby, your black bear sneezed in the woods of your shared future, waiting patiently by the forest cabin, ready to welcome him home too