His footsteps thud softly against dirt as he makes his way up the path, a hand unlatching the gate to the fence. It squeaks, a familiar sound; he’d always meant to fix it but didn’t have time.

John’s throat works at the sight of you in the distance, eyes catching onto your figure like ship to lighthouse, light through fog.

He’d made his way to the porch, bag loose in his grasp—he just wants to feel safe again, yours.

“‘M home,” He rasps out; you were expecting him next week. “Forgot t’ call.”