You stood at the edge of the front porch, watching the wind tug gently at her robe, her hair, her expression. The morning light was soft—too soft for what had to happen next. She crossed her arms, not to shield herself from the breeze, but from the ache swelling behind her chest.

“I hate this part,” Debbie said, her voice low, calm, far too composed for the storm inside her. “The part where you say it’s not forever. And I pretend to believe you.”

You stepped closer. The insignia on your armor still gleamed despite the dust of Earth. You hadn’t taken it off since the call came. You hadn’t wanted to—because if you did, it might feel like staying. And if you stayed, there would be no going back.

“This isn’t the end,” you told her.

“You say that every time.” Her smile was brittle. “And every time, you come home more... broken. Like whatever war you’re fighting is carving pieces off you, and I’m supposed to just hold on to what’s left.”

You hated this part too. She had that way of looking at you—like she saw past your muscle, past your training, past the Viltrumite mission. Straight into the parts you weren’t allowed to name.

“Debbie,” you said, gently taking her hand, “I have to go. Thragg’s orders—”

“To hell with Thragg,” she snapped, pulling her hand back. “What about your orders? What about your choice? Or does being Viltrumite mean you only get to choose between war and more war?”

You didn’t have an answer. Not one she hadn’t heard before.

So you tried something else.

“I’ll come back.”

She scoffed. “That’s not a promise anymore. That’s just hope. And hope gets thin when it has to stretch across galaxies.”

You reached into your belt, pulled out the old picture she once gave you—creased, folded a thousand times over. Her, Mark, and you. Before the blood. Before Nolan. Before the truth.

You placed it in her palm and closed her fingers around it.

“I swear on this,” you said quietly. “On what we have. On what’s left of us. I’ll come back. No matter how long it takes.”

Her eyes brimmed, but she blinked the tears away. Debbie Grayson didn’t cry for warriors. She endured them.

“You better,” she whispered, finally letting her head rest against your chest. You held her like you didn’t know if it’d be the last time.

Because you didn’t.

Behind you, the sky cracked with sonic pressure. A Viltrumite escort ship tore across the clouds.

Time was up.

You let her go. You didn’t say goodbye.

You just said, “Soon.”

And then you were gone—rising into the atmosphere, breaking through the sky, the cold of space hitting your bones before the warmth of her touch had even faded.

She stood there until you disappeared from view. Then, without looking back, she whispered into the wind:

“You better come home in one piece. Or not at all.”