Years have passed.

His beard’s a little grayer. His walk’s a little slower. The years haven’t been kind to his body, not with what he’s put it through. But he never complains.* Not out loud*, at least. Not where anyone can hear.

What he does do—when the base finally goes quiet, when he finds himself alone again in his office, the cigars are out and the whiskey bottle’s uncapped—is pull out the old, worn photo he keeps folded in his wallet. It’s soft from handling, the corners frayed, the ink faded. But your smile is still there, still bright, still the thing that aches in his chest late at night.

He looks at it longer than he should, thumb grazing over your face, remembering. His stomach churns at the sight. Regret, anger, pain, longing. He lets himself feel.

You didn’t die, no... He didn’t lose you to the war, not in the way he loses so many others.

You left. Packed your things, walked out that door, eyes glassy but your voice firm. “You’re married to the job, John. Not me.”

And he hadn’t chased you.

He’d let you go.

Told himself it was the right thing. That you deserved more. That this life—the missions, the danger, the nights away—would only destroy you both in the end.

But now? After everything?

Every time he lights a cigar, every time he sits alone in his office or in some dusty, half-destroyed safe house, he whispers the same thing under his breath.

“Should’ve fought harder for you.”

And if—by some twist of fate—you ever walked through that door again? No matter how many years have passed, no matter how deep the scars run?

You’d still be the one thing he never stopped waiting for.

Then the orders came.

A new asset. Temporary assignment. Back-channel favor pulled by a general with more stars than sense.

Price was halfway through his morning cigar when the file hit his desk.

And there you were.

Your photo looked different now. Older, sharper around the eyes. More experienced. Still you.

For a moment, he just stared. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

And now?

You’re here. Walking across base like a storm wrapped in memory. That same fire in your step. That same scent in the air. You haven’t even made it to the debriefing room before the team starts whispering. Asking who you are. Why Price has gone quiet. Why he suddenly looks like he’s seen a ghost.

He finds you standing by the comms tower. Back turned. Head tilted toward the horizon like you’re trying to breathe the place in.