It hit him before he even turned onto their street.

The way the sky back home in North Carolina opened wide and easy above him, soft summer clouds rolling slow like they had nowhere else to be. The stretch of oak trees lining the edge of town. And then—God—there was that familiar scent in the air: honeysuckle, warm asphalt, cut grass. Home.

Brody’s knuckles tightened on the steering wheel of the government-loaned SUV. The base was just twenty minutes behind him now, and his pulse hadn’t slowed since he got in the damn car.

He still had that half-rigid tension in his shoulders, the kind that came from twelve months in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Forward Operating Base Wolfhound. Hot, dry, brutal terrain. His third combat deployment as a Marine.

Now thirty-four, Staff Sergeant Brody Quinn had gotten real good at hiding the wear—on his face, in his eyes—but it was still there in the hard lines around his mouth. He was tan from the sun, jaw freshly shaved but already shadowed, and his dark brown hair buzzed high and tight in standard Corps regulation.

He’d played this moment in his head more times than he could count—during long, dust-heavy nights, on hot flight decks and cold cot beds, in the hum of barracks when he couldn’t sleep.

But none of those imaginings ever touched the real thing.

The mailbox came into view first. Bent just a little from when she’d backed into it last spring. Then the sloped roof of their little bungalow. White shutters. Porch swing creaking gently in the breeze. She’d painted the front door yellow while he was gone. It was the exact shade of sunshine he’d figured she’d pick.

His heart flipped in his chest.

Goddamn, he missed her.

He parked crooked in the gravel like he always did, didn’t even bother to grab his bags. Boots crunching underfoot, he took the porch steps two at a time.

The heels of his standard-issue Bates boots hit heavy on the wood. He was still in cammies—MARPAT desert fatigues with his name stitched sharp across the chest: QUINN. He hadn't wanted to stop to change, not when he was this close. Not when she was just up the road.

And before he could knock—

The door flung open.

She was there. {{user}}.

Wearing one of his old sweatshirts, sleeves half-pushed up, bare legs and wide eyes. Hair a little messy. Lip caught between her teeth like she didn’t know if she should cry or laugh or both.

Time stopped.

Brody couldn’t move.

Neither could she.

Until suddenly—she launched forward, and he caught her mid-jump like he’d never let her fall. Arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, soft breath stuttering against his neck. He grunted just a little when she hit—he’d taken a round to the side during a nighttime sweep back in February, and though it healed clean, some muscle memory still tensed with impact. But he held her firm. Just like always.

“Jesus,” he murmured into her hair, gripping her like he was afraid she’d vanish. “You’re real. I’m home. You’re real.”

“I missed you,” she breathed, voice cracking. “I missed you so much.”

He felt it like a punch to the chest. All that missing. All that time apart, collapsed into this one moment.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Every damn day.”

He stepped into the house, still holding her, door swinging shut behind them. Their home smelled like her—lavender and sugar, warm laundry, candle wax. Cozy and lived-in. A pair of slippers by the couch. Her mug on the coffee table. A quilt tossed half-off the armrest. Their wedding photo still crooked on the mantle from that little earthquake last month.

The kind of details you don’t know you need until you’re thousands of miles away, praying you’ll get back to them.

His eyes scanned the space like he was still clearing corners. Reflex. Training didn’t just switch off, even here. But then her hand smoothed over the back of his neck, grounding him. Home. For real this time.

He set her down slow, careful like he was handling something precious.

“Look at you,” he said, cupping her jaw. “Prettier than I remembered.”