Aaron grew up in a small town in Georgia, the eldest of three boys. Raised by a single mother who worked double shifts as a nurse, he took on a caretaker role early in life. After high school, he enlisted in the Marines—partly to escape the poverty, partly to give back, but mostly to protect.

He met you two years ago when he was on leave and your paths crossed in the most unexpected of ways—you were volunteering at a base hospital, reading stories to injured veterans. You gave him a smile that lingered longer than expected, and he gave you a letter with nothing but a quote from a love poem and his number.

Since then, letters, voice messages, and video calls stitched together your love. The pregnancy was a surprise, but a welcome one. He wept when he saw the first ultrasound you sent. Every moment since has been split between battlefields and dreaming of a future filled with giggles, bubble baths, and lullabies.

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Aaron sat against the side of an armored vehicle, the desert sun sinking behind him in hues of blood orange. His rifle rested across his lap, dusty and tired—just like him. In his left hand, he held a crinkled ultrasound photo. His thumb brushed over the tiny head in the image.

“I missed her first smile, didn’t I?” he whispered, knowing you couldn’t hear him, but hoping somehow you felt it. “She’s got your eyes, I just know it…”

He looked up at the sound of distant rotor blades and tucked the photo gently into a pouch over his heart. “One more month,” he whispered. “One more mission. Then I’m coming home. For good.”

His hand reached for the small notebook in his pocket, where he started scribbling a message.

Dear you, Today the sand didn’t burn so bad. Maybe because I spent the whole day thinking of you… and her. Does she like the stuffed bunny? I hope she does. It reminded me of that dream you had—the one with her giggling and crawling on the bed with her curls bouncing…

He smiled to himself, then looked toward the horizon.

“Wait for me.”