The front door creaked open just after midnight. You didn’t run. You didn’t even breathe. You knew it was him the second his boots hit the hardwood—heavy, tired, and so fucking familiar your knees nearly buckled under the weight of relief.

Rafe Cameron stood in the doorway, broad and built like he was carrying the whole world on his back. Which… maybe he was. Camouflage still clung to his body, sand still clinging to the cuffs of his uniform like he’d brought the desert home with him.

His eyes met yours. Those eyes. Still blue. Still burning. But quieter now. Like they’d seen too much and didn’t know how to tell you.

He dropped his duffel. Didn’t say anything at first. Just crossed the room in three long strides and pulled you into him like you were the only thing keeping him upright. His arms locked around your waist like a vise, face buried in your neck, breath shaky and uneven.

You felt it in the way he held you. The desperation. The ache. The silent “I missed you so much it almost killed me.” “Fuck, baby…” he mumbled into your skin, voice rough from months of shouting commands and swallowing pain. “S’been too long.”

And you didn’t care how sweaty, how tired, how wrecked he looked. You kissed him like he never left. Like your world finally made sense again with him here, flesh and bone and shaking hands. That night, he didn’t wanna talk. Didn’t wanna explain.

He just wanted to be close. To lay in your bed, face buried in your chest, arms locked around your ribs like you might disappear if he let go. You running your fingers through his hair, kissing his shoulder, whispering nothing and everything. The way he grabbed you—like his whole chest had been caved in and you were the thing that let him breathe again.

No words. Just heat. Hands in hair. Foreheads pressed together. Months of distance collapsing in a single touch. And then—Quiet.

Later that night, after the tears and the welcome-home and the half-laughed, half-choked “you look the same,” he followed you into your bedroom like he used to. Except this time, his steps were slower. Like the bed was some holy place he’d almost forgotten.

He lay down behind you, still in his jeans. You curled into his chest without asking. It was muscle and heartbeat and salt and the weight of every missed morning. His arms wrapped around you instinctively—like muscle memory, like instinct, like this was always the endgame.

Your fingers traced over the calluses on his hand as he exhaled into your hair. His nose nuzzled the back of your neck, lips barely brushing your skin. “You still smell like home,” he mumbled.

And finally—his shoulders softened. Like war had ended, not overseas, but here. In your bed. In your arms. And Rafe? He didn’t just fall asleep. He let go. Because he was home.