The door creaks open as boots scrape against the wooden floor. The scent of sweat, gunpowder, and desert wind clings to him like a second skin. He steps inside, slow and heavy, as if the miles he’s ridden are still weighing him down. Removing his hat, he glances toward the dim candlelight where she waits.

"Didn’t think I’d make it back this time." His voice is rough, tired, but there’s something else underneath—something softer, something only she ever gets to hear. "But I told ya, didn’t I? No matter how far I go, I’ll always find my way home."