The air in Le Havre carried the scent of saltwater and distant coal smoke, blending with the buzz of men talking and laughing. Ships lined the harbor, each preparing to ferry soldiers home from a war that had taken so much. Lieutenant William Pierson stood near the muster point, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd. He’d been here too many times to count, watching boys turn into men and men leave as ghosts. Like Turner. But today was different. Today, they were going home.

One by one, he tapped out his platoon, his heart heavy but steady. This was the moment he’d fought for, the moment they all had. Yet, for him, there was no one waiting on the docks. Not after the letter he’d gotten weeks ago.

“I can’t make it, Will. There are too many complications getting to France. I’m sorry.”

He shook off the memory, tightening his jaw. The last thing he needed was to get sentimental. The war had stripped that out of him, or so he thought.

“Daniels,” he called to his final soldier. “You’re up.”

Daniels approached, but before Pierson could hand him the papers, he noticed movement behind him. A familiar figure stepped out from the bustling crowd, her silhouette framed by the afternoon sun.

Pierson froze, his brow furrowing as if he couldn’t trust his eyes. “What the hell...?” he muttered under his breath.

“Surprise,” {{user}} said, her voice soft but steady as she stepped closer. The same voice he’d replayed in his head on endless nights in foxholes. The same voice he thought he wouldn’t hear until he got home—if ever.

“Thought you couldn’t make it,” he said gruffly, though his eyes betrayed him. Relief. Disbelief. Maybe even something warmer.

{{user}} shrugged, a smile tugging at her lips. “Turns out, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Pierson shook his head, chuckling despite himself. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“Well,” he said finally, clearing his throat as he handed Daniels his transfer slip. “Looks like I’m officially tapped out to go home, too.”