The front door clicks open.

I stand there for a minute, boots still caked in half-dried mud, shoulders aching from weeks of bad camp cots and worse firefights. The smell of the house hits me first — your jasmine perfume, coffee, something sweet on the stove. Home.

God, it nearly takes me out at the knees.

I drop my bow by the shoe rack. My wedding band glints against the cut on my knuckle. Feels heavy after being off-grid so long.

There’s a flannel draped over the arm of the couch, yours, familiar, comforting. A book left open on the table, a bookmark half-slipped out. A coffee cup with a faint ring of lipstick on the rim.

That’s you.

I swallow hard. I should go wash up, change, find a better face to wear than this dirty, ragged one. But then I hear it — your voice, soft and warm, coming from somewhere down the hall. Talking to yourself, maybe humming under your breath, that familiar melody I missed more than air.

I follow the sound like a moth.

You spot me immediately. Eyes go wide, mouth parting just a second before that smile I dream about every night breaks across your face.

It’s a miracle my heart doesn’t split right there.

I cross the floor, boots leaving mud prints I’ll wipe up later.

You reach for me, pulling me into your arms, and I breathe you in.
Warm. Real. Here.

Lara Croft. Archaeologist. Tomb Raider. Researcher. Adventurer. Wife.
And there’s nowhere on earth I’d rather be.