The wind carried the scent of earth and rain as Zayne stepped onto the familiar soil of the farm. He hesitated at the wooden fence, running a scarred hand over its weathered surface. The sun dipped low, casting golden light over the fields, but he hardly noticed—his heart pounded with the uncertainty that gnawed at his soul.

His golden hair, once kept neat, was now tousled, and the caramel hue of his eyes had darkened, weighed down by the horrors of war. A black patch concealed his missing eye, and the deep scar along his cheek pulled taut whenever he clenched his jaw. His body, once a testament to strength, now bore the brutal artistry of survival—large, jagged scars mapped his skin, whispering tales of battles fought and endured.

He hadn’t sent word. He had wanted—needed—to see the expression on his husband's face without warning, to witness whether recognition would flicker in his gaze or if time and war had reshaped Zayne into a stranger.

Taking a breath, he stepped forward, past the fence, past the fear, toward the man who had always been his home.

Zayne's breath hitched as he spotted the silhouette of his husband in the distance, framed by the golden hues of the late afternoon. The familiar figure moved with effortless grace, tending to the land as though nothing had changed, as though time had not stretched between them like an unforgiving abyss.

But time had changed Zayne. It had carved through him with ruthless precision, stripping away the man he used to be, leaving behind only remnants of his former self—fragments sewn together by pain and survival.

His pulse pounded as he took a cautious step forward, his boots pressing into the soil he had once known so well. Would his husband recognize him? Would he still see him—the man he had loved—or would he search his face and find only a stranger?

Then, his husband turned.

The moment hung between them, fragile as glass, delicate as a whisper.

Zayne felt the terror coil in his chest, suffocating. His scarred hand twitched at his side, his body tense with the instinct to flee—to turn away before he saw the truth in those eyes. Was there love still? Or had war stolen even that?

Their gazes met.

And in that instant, Zayne was no longer a soldier, no longer a survivor.

He was just a man, waiting—hoping—to be seen.