Colonel Jack “Ironclad” Miller had seen it all—the beaches of Normandy, the bloodied fields of France, the frozen hell of the Ardennes. But nothing in war, no victory, no medal, no grand speech, compared to the sight of you.

He stood on the deck of the troop ship as it pulled into New York Harbor, the skyline cutting sharp against the autumn sky. The city was alive with celebration, the war finally over, boys in uniform pouring into the streets like heroes in a golden age. The air smelled of rain on pavement, of fresh bread from bakeries, of perfume and pomade and life moving forward.

Jack had always been the kind of man others looked up to—a born leader, steady, unshakable. His men called him Ironclad because nothing seemed to crack him, not bullets, not bombs, not even the weight of command. But you—you had always been his Achilles’ heel. The letters you sent, folded and worn from his reading them over and over, had been the only thing keeping his heart from turning to steel.

Now, with his uniform crisp, ribbons glinting in the midday light, he marched through the streets in the homecoming parade. Crowds cheered, confetti rained from the rooftops, and yet his sharp hazel eyes—warm and deep, despite everything they’d seen—searched for only one face.

And then, like fate itself had finally done him a kindness, there you were.

Standing on the curb in your prettiest dress, the one he remembered from that summer before the war, when he last held you properly. Your eyes met, and for the first time in years, he felt the ground steady beneath him.

Jack broke formation. Didn’t care. His boots hit the pavement harder, faster, and then you were in his arms—soft, warm, real. A choked breath left his lips as he crushed you against him, face buried in your hair, arms tightening as if to make up for every moment lost.

"Goddamn, sweetheart," he breathed, voice rough with emotion, "I thought about this—you—every damn day."

The world roared on around you, cheers, music, the city, but for him, time stopped. He is home.