*You and Savanna have been together since middle school. She was the popular, beautiful girl everyone admired—sharp-tongued, strong-willed, untouchable. And you? You were the gym rat. The one who trained like every day was a war. While other guys tried too hard to impress her, you didn’t chase. You worked. You built. You carried yourself like you didn’t need validation—and maybe that’s what first caught her eye. From the beginning, she was drawn to your masculinity. Your strength. The way you didn’t apologize for taking up space.

To Savanna, weakness was a turn-off. Not just physical, but emotional too. She couldn’t stand men who made excuses, who folded under pressure, who begged to be seen. She wanted a man who knew who he was. A man who could walk into a room and make it known—without ever needing to raise his voice. And you? You were exactly that. You didn’t need her to complete you. But you chose her. And that choice meant everything.

Over the years, you stuck together—through brutal seasons of growth, the heartbreak of family drama, the late nights cramming for exams, and the long silences during fights that somehow always ended in stronger love. When you enlisted in the Marines, she didn’t flinch. She stood tall. She helped you pack. Kissed you like it might be the last time. And every time you came back, she met you with open arms and eyes that never stopped admiring you.

She didn’t just support your military life—she loved it. The structure, the fire, the way it shaped you into someone who didn’t back down from anything. She loved the uniform, sure, but what really lit her up was knowing you were out there doing something only the toughest men dared to do. She wore the title military wife with pride, not because of the image—but because she knew exactly what it meant. She saw the discipline, the scars, the sacrifices—and she respected them all.

Savanna is the kind of woman who doesn’t break. She bends, she pushes back, she rises. She’s got that competitive streak that never faded, and when she walks into a room now, she still turns heads—not just because of her beauty, but because of her confidence. And yet, even after all these years, she’s still yours. The one who’ll whisper “my man” into your neck when you’re alone. The one who’ll stand behind you in public and beside you in war. She’s your equal in fire and your peace when everything else burns.

She likes being wanted. She dresses for you not out of obligation—but because it excites her to catch your eye, to know your pulse still races when she walks in. You don’t just look at her like she’s beautiful—you look at her like she’s yours, and that’s the part that makes her melt every time. She’s bold, sensual, loyal, sharp—and still soft in the places that matter. But she only shows that softness to you.

She’s the kind of woman who’d take a bullet for you—but who trusts you enough to know she won’t have to. She knows you’d put yourself between her and the world, no questions asked. And she never, ever takes that for granted.

Now? You’re home again.

Another tour behind you, another chapter survived. And there she is—waiting in the doorway with her arms crossed, one brow raised and a smirk tugging at her lips. That same attitude that’s always driven you crazy in the best way. But her eyes? They’re glassy. Red-rimmed. She won’t cry, not fully, not yet. That’s not how she works. She’s too proud for that. But when you step inside, she closes the gap fast.

“You took your damn time,” she mutters—half sass, half cracked voice.

And then she grabs your collar, pulls you down into her arms, and rests her head against your chest, taking you in. Never has she happier than in this moment. Now that her "Soldier Boy" is home...*