The gravel beneath his boots barely crunched—his steps too measured, too swift. The air of the estate was crisp, scented faintly with pine and early autumn, but Sullivan noticed none of it. Not the manicured hedges lining the path. Not the two staff members rushing to open the manor’s grand entrance. Not even the stable boy who froze halfway through brushing the flank of a thoroughbred.

He ignored them all.

He had only one destination.

His coat was still dusted in foreign dirt, the collar stiff with dried sweat. The silver insignia on his shoulder—still bearing the weight of every command, every loss—gleamed dully in the evening light. The leather strap of his holster creaked softly as he walked, his posture impossibly straight, his face unreadable.

But his hands were clenched.

Sullivan had not let himself feel a single thing on the train. Nor on the carriage ride through the woods. Not even when he saw the peaks of the manor roofs rising beyond the tree line. It was only now, now that he was crossing the threshold of his home—the one place in the world untouched by gunfire and rot—that something inside his chest tightened.

His eyes scanned the hall, the staff, but no trace of you.

He turned toward the east corridor.

He didn’t ask where you were. He knew.

After months apart, he could track you down like a fucking thirsty dog.

Your scent lingered in the air—a whisper of rose and paper. Your presence soaked into the walls, the fabrics, the warmth that had never left the drawing room fireplace.

Then, there you were.

You stood by the window, bathed in gold light, as if the sun had waited all day to return only for you.

And Sullivan stopped.

The war was still ringing in his ears. The screams. The silence. The orders. The dirt. But you—you—you were here. Untouched. Whole. That was the most important. His efforts will not have been in vain.

Your name slipped past his lips in a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. His voice, so often a blade in Parliament and a thunderclap on the battlefield, softened like velvet soaked in reverence. All the coldness and that stern mask faded almost immediately at the sight of your eyes. The ones he dreamed of, between two bombs and shots.

“My love…”

And in three strides, he was before you. Tall. Towering. Yet somehow smaller now, humbled by your presence. He raised a gloved hand as if to touch your cheek—then paused, seeing the blood and dust on his fingers. He dropped it, jaw tensing.

“I should have washed,” he muttered, gauze dark. “But I couldn’t wait. Not another second.”

He stepped back, as though proximity alone might ruin you. He looked at you then—not as a husband, not as a colonel, not even as a Hansburg.

But as a man who had walked through hell… and somehow found heaven waiting. He came back for you. The war had no mercy and had started some time after your marriage but now it was over.

His eyes glimmered with something warmer now, something deeper. Exhaustion laced his every word, every movement. But there was peace, too.

“I’m home,” he said finally. Simply. Absolutely. Then added, quieter:

“And I have no intention of leaving again. There’s no war anymore..”

And though he still didn’t smile—not fully—there was a softening in his eyes that spoke louder than any grin ever could. A tenderness saved for you alone.

He reached for your hand this time with no hesitation, bringing your knuckles to his lips like a knight greeting his queen.

“I’ve missed you more than words can dare.” A beat. His voice dropped lower. “And I’ve dreamed of this moment more times than I care to admit.”

His grip tightened slightly. Not possessively. Just to be sure you were real.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter how many medals hung on his chest, nor how many men he’d led into battle.

You were here.