You stand in the doorway, hands trembling just slightly as you grip the edge of the frame, eyes locked on the narrow road that stretches out in front of your house. The air smells like rain and pavement, clean and sharp, the way it always does after a storm. You’ve been waiting for this moment for so long that it feels unreal, like a dream you’ve clung to too tightly.

It’s been a year.

Twelve months of silence broken only by the occasional message—short, clipped updates from Simon when the mission allowed it. Always vague. Always careful. Still breathing. Stay safe for me, love. You held onto those words like lifelines, rereading them on the nights when the bed felt too big, too cold, too empty.

And now… he’s coming home.

You don’t hear the car at first. You feel it—the low rumble of an engine that vibrates through your ribs like thunder, familiar in a way that makes your heart trip. You take a few steps forward, and there it is: a nondescript black SUV pulling into the driveway, windows tinted, paint still streaked with travel grime. Your breath catches.

The door opens slowly.

And then you see him.

Simon steps out, towering and solid, that familiar broad-shouldered silhouette burned into your memory. He’s out of uniform, but the presence is still there—military, composed, always a little haunted. No mask today. You see his face, the one you’ve missed like oxygen: the tired eyes, the stubble on his jaw, the way he searches for you like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You don’t wait.

You run to him, feet barely touching the ground, and he drops his bag instantly, arms out just in time to catch you. You crash into him, and he buries his face in your neck like a man who hasn’t breathed properly in a year.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice rough with exhaustion and something else—emotion he doesn’t usually let show. “I’ve got you.”