You hated how much you missed him. Every corner of the house seemed infused with him—every shadow, every lingering scent. The smell of cigars still flooded the air every time you opened a door, clinging stubbornly to the walls as though he’d never left. You could almost feel the weight of his presence, that subtle pull of him just beyond your reach, and it twisted in your chest.

You missed John—the way he filled a room without even trying, the sound of his laugh ricocheting off the walls, the quiet way he handled the little things that made life feel lighter. His presence was an echo now, a ghost that teased you, made you ache in his absence. The dog tags lay where he had left them, gleaming coldly on the dresser, engraved simply: John Price. You traced the letters with your fingers sometimes, needing that connection, as if your touch could bridge the miles and danger that kept him away.

You knew he wouldn’t be home soon, and that knowledge gnawed at you. The sheets smelled of him but felt empty, a hollow weight on your bed that no amount of tossing or turning could fill. At night, your dreams betrayed you. Fitful nightmares clawed through the edges of sleep—visions of him wounded, trapped, or worse. The thought was relentless: What if he doesn’t make it? What if he comes home in a body bag rather than with that cheeky, infuriating, lovable grin you adored? The idea clawed at your stomach, leaving a hollow ache that nothing could soothe.

Hours dragged. Your eyes watched the clock tick mercilessly into the early morning, your hands twitching to reach for a phone you had no right to call. And then… at 2 a.m., that sound: the front door. The subtle shift of the lock, the careful steps on the porch, and finally the familiar creak as it opened. Your heart stuttered. Your eyes flew open.

He was home.

The air seemed to change the moment he crossed the threshold—warmer, heavier, electric with a tension that had nothing to do with sleep. You could hear him, really hear him: the soft brush of his boots against the floor, the low creak of his movements, that quiet sigh that told you he was alive, and that he had come back for you. Relief and longing collided in your chest so violently you felt it in your throat, and before you could think, before your brain could catch up, you were moving toward him, your legs carrying the weight of weeks of worry, fear, and aching desire.

There he was, standing in the dim hallway light, hair tousled, eyes shadowed with fatigue but bright with recognition, that half-smile that could undo everything and nothing at the same time. You didn’t speak; words would betray you. You just reached for him, and he was there, arms wide enough to swallow you whole. And in that instant, all the waiting, all the fear, all the empty nights dissolved into the simple truth: he was home.