Before the war reached its worst, you left.

Not because you did not love him. Not because you stopped believing in the future you had planned together. You left because your family needed you, and because the fear of losing them all at once was heavier than anything else you carried. Bill understood. He always did. He kissed your forehead and told you to go be safe.

After that, there were only letters.

You wrote to him every chance you got. He wrote back when he could. Short letters at first, careful ones. Updates without details. Reassurances without promises. As the months passed, even those became scarce. When they did arrive, they smelled faintly of salt and parchment and something burnt, as if they had travelled too close to danger.

You read them over and over until the edges softened.

The war ended without warning. One moment the world was holding its breath, the next it was exhaling in grief and relief all at once. You packed your things the same day you heard. There was never any question where you would go.

Shell Cottage never looked so peaceful.

The sky was streaked with gold and pale blue. The wind carried the scent of salt and wildflowers. The cottage stood exactly as it always had, white stone glowing softly in the evening light. It should have been comforting. Instead, your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he would hear it before he ever saw you.

Bill was outside near the edge of the grass, arms full of firewood.

He saw you step through the gate.

The wood slipped from his grasp and hit the ground with a dull thud.

He did not say a word. He crossed the grass in long, uneven strides and stopped in front of you. His hands lifted, hesitant at first, then sure as he touched your face, your arms, your hands, like he needed proof that you were real.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice rough. “You’re safe.”

You nodded, your throat too tight to form proper words. “So are you.”

Something in him finally gave. He let out a breath like he had been holding it for months. One hand settled at your waist. The other cupped your jaw, warm and steady, his thumb brushing your skin like he could not quite believe this moment had come.

“I thought about this,” he said quietly. “This exact moment. Every night.”

Then he kissed you.

It was not rushed. It was not desperate. It was slow and steady and full of everything he had held back for months. The kind of kiss that spoke of survival. Of patience. Of love that had endured distance and fear and silence. His hand stayed warm at your waist, anchoring you, while the other rested against your jaw like a promise.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching a tear you had not noticed falling.

“You’re finally home,” he whispered.

You nodded again, unable to stop the tears now, your hands gripping the front of his shirt. “I am.”

His lips pressed softly to your temple, then your hair, his arms tightening around you just a little more. “I never want you to leave again.”