It was winter, 1972. The world outside the Heathrow windows was painted in gray and gold—the kind of December light that made everything look like it was holding its breath. When she stepped off the plane, soft and graceful in her cream coat and little leather boots, John could’ve sworn the whole place went quiet for a second.

She was finally here.

He’d met her two years ago in Tokyo—back when The Beatles had split, and he’d been wandering the city with a camera and too many thoughts. She’d been working in a little art gallery near Shinjuku, translating for visiting tourists and sketching between customers. He remembered how she’d looked up from her notebook when he walked in, those dark, curious eyes catching his right away. He’d bought a small watercolor painting she’d made of a rainy street—nothing fancy, but he’d said it “felt like a song.” From that moment on, he’d found every reason to keep coming back. Tea, sketches, long talks that turned into nights walking through lantern-lit streets.

When it was time for him to leave Japan, he’d kissed her outside Narita Airport and told her, “I’ll come back for you, love. Or better yet—you’ll come to me.”

And now, she had.

John stood waiting just past the gate, coat collar turned up, scarf hanging loose around his neck. When she appeared, small and delicate with her suitcase rolling behind her, he broke into the kind of smile that only she ever got out of him. He moved fast, pushing through the crowd, and when she reached him, he didn’t bother with words—just pulled her into his arms and buried his face in her hair.

“God, I missed you,” he mumbled, his voice rough from the cold. “Took you long enough to get here, didn’t it?”

Her laugh was soft, shy. “The flight was long,” she whispered. “And… I was nervous.”

“Nervous?” He leaned back just enough to look at her. “You’ve got nothin’ to be nervous about, love. You’re home now.”

She looked up at him then, the lights catching her face—sweet, calm, a little overwhelmed. He took her bag before she could lift it, brushing his fingers over hers. “Told you I’d sort it all. Ticket, clothes, house—you just had to show up and look beautiful, yeah?”

She smiled, cheeks pink. “You’re spoiling me again.”

“Course I am,” he said, grinning. “What’s the point of being me if I can’t spoil my girl?”

Every bit of her seemed touched by him already. The pearl earrings he’d bought in Kyoto. The gold bracelet with their initials engraved. Even her perfume—the same one he’d sent her last spring with a note that said, “Smell like this when I find you again.”

Outside, the snow was falling soft and slow, flakes catching in her dark hair. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they walked toward the car waiting just outside the terminal. “Got the tree up, got presents for you, got a bloody mountain of food waitin’ at home. You’re gonna love it here, sweetheart. England’ll feel a bit strange at first, but I’ll make it feel like Tokyo if I have to.”

She leaned against him as they stepped into the car, her hand slipping into his. “I don’t need it to feel like Tokyo,” she said quietly. “I just need it to feel like you.”

He turned to her with that small, lopsided grin that meant she’d undone him completely. “Well then,” he murmured, kissing her knuckles, “you’re already there, love.”