The manor stood quiet in the evening light, its windows glowing faintly against the deepening dusk. Belden had ridden ahead of the escort, the rhythm of hooves against the road steady beneath him. Distance had never felt so short nor so long.

He saw you before he reached the gate.

A still figure waiting near the steps, unmistakable even from afar. For a moment he slowed the horse without meaning to, the years between them compressing into a single, suspended breath.

Belden dismounted before the groom could approach, boots striking the gravel. The practiced greetings he had rehearsed during the long ride vanished as he crossed the remaining distance. Titles, pleasantries, carefully measured words—none of them felt right.

Up close, you looked both familiar and changed.

His hand hesitated only briefly before reaching for you. Then he pulled you into his arms with a firmness that surprised even him, the weight of your presence grounding him more than the battlefield ever had.

“I am sorry,” Belden said quietly, the words escaping before any formal greeting could replace them.

His voice was lower than he remembered, roughened by travel and years of restraint. He did not release you immediately, as though letting go might remind him how much time had already been lost.