𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟓 | 𝐔.𝐒

harry crosby scrambled off the boat, past his fellow soldiers, and onto the dock. he was thankful this war was over, desperate to see you again. his wife. god, how he loved calling you that. he wrote you letters every day, any time he got the chance, but it wasn’t the same as holding your soft, lovely, perfect body in his arms.

he ran through the crowds of people, pushing past the weeping widows, and the joyous girlfriends. he stopped suddenly, looking around, trying to hide how desperate he was to see your face again. his stomach churned with a flurry of emotions.

suddenly, he spotted you. as cheesy as it sounded, you looked like an angel, as if you hadn’t aged a day since he last saw you. the ribbons in your hair, the gorgeous dress he bought you for your honeymoon before he left. just like he remembered. he raced towards you, almost tackling you to the ground, as he wrapped his arms around you.