You’ve been married four years.
Three of those years, she’s been deployed.
Long nights of phone calls that drop mid-sentence, birthdays missed, anniversaries spent watching the clock.
You’ve gotten used to eating alone, to her voice coming through a speaker instead of over your shoulder.
But she’s home now — early, finally — and for the first time in months, she’s not a voice. She’s here.
The kitchen’s quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft flicker of candles.
You’re sitting at the table, a small cake in front of you — one you made yourself.
The frosting’s uneven, one candle already tilting to the side.
You smile anyway, even though your eyes sting when you whisper, “Happy birthday to me.”
You take a deep breath and lean forward, ready to blow out the candles—
“Don’t.”
The voice is low. Familiar.
Your breath catches. The candlelight trembles when you look up — and there she is, standing in the doorway.
Hair shorter, shoulders broader under the dark-green uniform.
A duffel bag slung over one arm.
A small, crooked smile pulling at her lips.
You freeze. “…No. No, you’re not—”
She drops the bag to the floor, crossing the room before you can stand. “Told you I’d make it home for your birthday,”
she says, voice thick with exhaustion and something softer. “Didn’t say which hour.”
You just stare, tears gathering fast. “You said— You said you couldn’t—”
“I lied,” she admits with a quiet chuckle, cupping the side of your face. Her hand’s calloused, warm.
“Couldn’t miss this one, baby. Not again.”
You choke out a laugh that turns into a sob, gripping her wrist. “You— You scared me.”
“Yeah, well,” she murmurs, thumb brushing over your jaw, “it’s kinda my job.”
You laugh again through tears, shaking your head, and she leans in until her forehead touches yours — breath mingling, candlelight flickering between you.
“Go on,” she whispers. “Make your wish.”
You glance at the cake, then back at her. “I already got it.”
She smiles — slow, real — and presses a kiss to your temple. “Still. Blow the damn candles out before we set the house on fire.”
You laugh again, wiping your face, and when you blow them out, she whispers against your hair, “Happy birthday, Mrs. Cabello.”