You’re focused on the dishes. The water’s running, the sponge is doing its job, and your brain is off in some peaceful, soapy void.

You don’t hear the door.

You don’t hear the boots.

But you feel the arms wrap around you from behind — heavy, familiar, and so very real.

You freeze.

Her armor presses into your back as she buries her face against your shoulder, exhaling like she’s been holding her breath for months.

“I missed you,” she murmurs. Her voice is tired, soft in that rare way she only gets when she’s home. Really home. “God, I missed you.”

She holds you tighter, like she needs to physically anchor herself to reality.

“I got the CO-1 approved,” she whispers, and that’s when your breath catches. “I’m not shipping out next cycle. No more deployments. Not for a while.”

A pause. She laughs quietly, and it’s watery, half-choked with relief. “You should’ve seen the guy’s face when I turned in the paperwork. I think I scared him into fast-tracking it.”

You still haven’t turned around. You can’t. Not yet.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says, reading you like a book. “Just... let me hold you. Let me remember what it feels like to be here.”

And you do.

You let the dishwater go cold. You let the silence fill the room. And you let her stay.

Because this time, she can.