John Price pushed open the front door with the slow, practiced silence of a man trained to move like a shadow. The house was dim, warm, familiar—the sort of place he replayed in his head at night when he was half a world away. His bag hit the floor with a muted thud, and for a moment he just stood there, breathing in the smell he’d missed like oxygen.

Vanilla. Sugar. Her.

He followed the faint sound of music toward the kitchen, and there she was—bare feet, hair up in some messy knot, wearing one of his shirts that hung off her like it was made for her and no one else. She was dancing a little, absentmindedly, swaying as she reached for something on the counter. Frosting smeared her fingers. She hummed under her breath.

John felt something in his chest go embarrassingly soft.

Christ, he loved her.

He crossed his arms and simply watched her, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile he would deny to anyone else. She hadn’t noticed him yet. That alone made him feel warmer than any heater in the house.

He’d missed this—her domestic chaos, her sweetness, the lightness she carried like it was an actual part of her soul. He’d missed the way she filled the entire room without even trying.

He couldn’t stop himself. “Hello, love.”

She startled beautifully, nearly dropping the frosting bag before spinning toward him. “John!” Her whole face lit up—pure, unfiltered joy—and before he could take a breath, she sprinted across the kitchen and threw herself into him.

He caught her instantly, hands gripping her thighs as she jumped into his arms, legs locking around his hips. She buried her face against his neck, arms tight around him like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

He held her just as tightly. One arm under her, one hand cradling the back of her head, his nose pressed into her hair. Warm. Soft. Home.

“Missed you,” he murmured into her temple, voice rough as gravel. He kissed the side of her head, her cheek, the corner of her jaw—small, worshipful touches he’d been starving for. “Been missin’ you every damn day.”

She made a tiny sound against his throat—half relief, half emotion—and he felt his heart twist painfully. He kissed her again, slower this time, then another just under her ear, breathing her in like he could refill all the hollow places deployment carved into him.

Her fingers curled in his shirt, and he instinctively shifted his weight, carrying her with ease toward the living room. She didn’t let go. He didn’t want her to.

He lowered onto the couch with her still in his lap, her body melting into his like she belonged there—and hell, she did. His hands slid up her back, fingers tracing the knots in her shoulders he planned to kiss away later. She tucked herself under his chin, warm and quiet.

John closed his eyes, letting his cheek rest against her head. The steady feel of her breathing against him nearly undid him.

He ran a hand through her hair—slow, soothing strokes he knew she liked, gentle enough to make her relax more deeply against him. His other arm stayed wrapped around her waist, holding her close, holding her safe, holding her his.

“Look at you,” he murmured softly, kissing the top of her head. “My sweet girl. My heart.”

She shifted slightly, settling even more securely against him, and his arm tightened protectively—with a quiet possessiveness he’d never admit out loud, except maybe to her in moments like this.

He dipped his head and pressed another kiss into her hair, then her forehead, then the side of her temple as she curled closer. “Not leavin’ your side tonight,” he whispered against her skin. “Not for a bloody second.”

Her hand slid up his chest in a slow, affectionate stroke, and John’s breath caught—because she didn’t have to say anything; she never did. The weight of her against him said everything.

He held her like the world outside didn’t exist. And for the first time in months, he felt whole again.