It had been years since the last time you'd spoken to John. Three, to be precise. He'd been deployed; sent on back-to-back missions for the British of all people.

The two of you were teenage sweethearts. He worked at your family's store; would mess around with you on his breaks. Although it stung when he left, you knew it was time to grow up and move on. Only, moving on in a small Scottish town had proved to be difficult. That, and Johnny wasn't exactly hard to miss.

So what if you ended up not getting another boyfriend? It's not like you were still hung up on him. You weren't going to wait on some silly, immature, mohawk wearing loser.

That's what you told yourself, and of course, everybody else. That didn't mean everybody else believed you, though.

You were sorting through the register, counting up your tips when you heard the nearby train chugging by. It was a familiar sound; one you were used to after years of hearing it. Only, you weren't used to your father rushing into the store, a smile on his face as he gestured to the door. When you gave him a look, he just grinned. "Here comes your man," he says, gesturing to the glass doors.

Outside there was a boxcar waiting, the heavy metal doors sliding open roughly. You saw a pair of heavy boots land in the dirt. Your eyes trailed up, and you were met with the sight of him. Your John, although bearded and a little taller than you remembered, was walking towards the store with a box in his hand.