Thirteen years ago, you left for the stars — to fight in a war between two distant worlds. One of them had called for aid, and you answered, because that’s what heroes do. But you weren’t just a hero then. You were twenty-two, a husband, a new father.
Conner didn’t want you to go. He tried not to show it, but you could see the fear behind his eyes — the kind that comes from loving someone too deeply to lose them. Your son had just been born, still small enough to fit in one arm, still smelling like warmth and milk and beginnings.
You promised you’d return. You pressed your forehead to Conner’s, the world falling silent around you. One last kiss. One last breath shared. Then you left.
And he waited.
Now, thirteen years later, you were thirty-five — older, heavier with experience, scarred by battles both mortal and divine. You had faced the gods themselves, endured their trials, survived their tempests. You had slain the one hundred and eight pretenders who dared to threaten your son — those who planned to kill him, to violate your husband, to claim what was never theirs.
It was finally over. The war, the wrath, the gods’ cruel games.
After your last conversation with Athena — your guardian, your guide — you bowed your head in farewell. The goddess faded into the light, and your son appeared beside you, his voice soft but full of awe.
— “Father… he’s waiting for you.”
You smiled faintly. How ironic, you thought. Because Conner had always been waiting.
You drew a deep breath, your chest tight with both fear and longing. Before the door stood the life you’d been fighting for all this time — and somehow, you were more nervous now than you had been before any battle. You tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, a small, familiar gesture that made you feel young again, made you feel like the person you were before the war.
Your hand trembled as you reached for the door handle. Slowly, you pushed it open.
And there he was.
Conner Kent — your husband, your heart — standing on the balcony, bathed in the fading glow of the sunset. His hair was a little longer now, his shoulders broader, but the way he turned at the sound of the door… that was still him. The same Conner you’d fallen in love with all those years ago.
He froze when he saw you, eyes wide, the air catching in his throat. His hand tightened around the balcony railing as though to steady himself.
— “Is it you?” he breathed. “Have my prayers been answered?”
He straightened, his gaze never leaving you. His voice trembled — half disbelief, half desperate hope.
— “Is it really you standing there… or am I dreaming once more?”
You wanted to speak, but no words came. The air between you was too full of everything you hadn’t said in thirteen years.
Conner stepped forward — slowly, almost reverently. When he finally reached you, he lifted a hand, his fingers trembling as they brushed against your cheek. His touch was warm, careful, as though afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t gentle enough.
— “You look different…” he whispered, eyes tracing the lines time had left on you. “Your eyes look tired… your frame is lighter… your smile torn…”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth — that same small, tender motion you’d missed more than sleep, more than air.
— “Is it really you, my love?”