Couples grow together. They grow apart. They argue, make up, stumble, and sometimes fall. But what they don’t do—what they’re not supposed to do—is vanish.

That’s what happened to Simon Riley.

Your fiancé. Your anchor. The man who made your world feel steady even when everything else tilted sideways. One moment, he was beside you—his rough hand clasping yours, his voice whispering promises under the hush of twilight—and the next, he was gone. Not in a way that makes sense. Not in a way that has closure. Just… gone.

He was deployed on a low-risk operation, in and out, three days at most. That’s what they told you. That’s what he told you. A formality. A routine assignment. A few days apart, then he’d be back in your arms, complaining about the coffee in the barracks and asking if you’d remembered to record his favorite show. You trusted the timeline. You kissed him goodbye at the door with a promise of dinner waiting when he returned.

But three days turned into seven. Then ten. Then silence.

The knock on the door came on a cold morning. You’ll never forget it. Two soldiers in uniform, eyes lowered, hats in hand, posture rigid as if it could hold back the weight of the words they carried. You already knew before they spoke. Before they muttered, “We regret to inform you…” and those three hollow words—Missing in Action—pierced through your chest like glass. You remember blinking, trying to breathe, trying to understand how someone could simply disappear into the air like smoke.

And then came the waiting.

238 days. That’s how long it’s been. Every day stretched and pulled like sinew. Every hour louder than the one before. Every second a dull ache in your chest, a phantom pain where he used to be. You counted them all, like a ritual. As if by sheer will, you could summon him back.

You lived in the remains of his presence. His scent still clung to the hoodie tossed across the back of the couch. His boots stayed by the door, unmoved. You couldn’t bring yourself to touch any of it. His laughter echoed faintly in the corners of the apartment. His face smiled down at you from photographs that once brought comfort but now drew tears. You hated the quiet. You hated the way the silence wrapped around your home like a shroud.

But what you hated most was not knowing. Was he alive? Was he hurt? Was he calling your name in the dark somewhere? The grief wasn’t clean. It had no end, no closure. It was a hollow ache filled with questions that never got answers.

And then—

A knock.

This time it wasn’t cold, official, or practiced. It was loud. Desperate. Real.

You dragged yourself to the door, still wrapped in yesterday’s clothes, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. You opened it expecting anything but him.

But there he stood.

Simon.

Your Simon.

Weathered. Worn. Alive. His body broader than you remembered, cloaked in fatigue and pain and something else—survival. His eyes scanned you like a man clinging to the last familiar thing in the world. And for a moment, neither of you spoke. The air was too thick. The space between you was charged with disbelief.

You stepped forward. Your hands trembled. Your lips parted but the words caught in your throat.

Then you broke.

You crashed into him, arms flinging around his waist, burying your face in his chest, breathing him in like it could fix everything. He held you—tighter than ever. His hand slid into your hair. His breath, shaky against your temple, was full of everything he couldn’t say.

“I’m back,” he whispered, voice raw, reverent. “I’m back, darling.”

And just like that, the world tilted back into place. Not whole. Not perfect. But real. Because he was here. And you’d met him again.