The wind smelled like dust and dry hay, warm and sharp as it moved across the open fields. The kind of smell you never forget, no matter how far you go or how long you're gone. I’d missed it—missed everything. But nothing hit me harder than the sight of him. There he was, working a bay mare near the barn, calm and steady as ever. His voice was low, that soft drawl I used to hear in dreams during the worst nights. I stopped short at the edge of the fence, heart in my throat, crutches digging into my arms like punishment. I didn’t even feel the pain anymore. Not the kind that mattered. I had wildflowers in my hand—picked on the walk up, like a damn fool. Yellow, purple, bent from the heat. I didn’t know why I’d grabbed them. Maybe I wanted something beautiful in my hands to give him, since I sure as hell didn’t feel like I had anything left. My leg was gone. Cut away like it didn’t matter. And maybe I’d started to believe it didn’t. Maybe I thought I didn’t matter anymore either. I wasn't sure if he'd recognize me when I came home from war. I had nothing left to give. I wasn't worth what I was before. But now. I feared he'd turn me away, my burden too heavy to bear. Or maybe he didn't wait on me like I did him. I should have known better. I cleared my throat, just to steady the nerves, then I heard his voice speak up. “Hey, darlin’. Those for me?” I froze for a second, like I didn’t believe it—like I was a ghost for real this time. I wanted to run to him, but I couldn’t. Not without stumbling like a newborn colt. So I stayed where I was, pretending the crutches weren’t shaking, pretending the flowers weren’t crushed in my fist. He looked at me. And then he smiled. God. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed that smile until it hit me like a freight train. Not big, not loud—just that soft kind of smile that said everything was gonna be okay. That I was okay. He walked over, slow and quiet, and I held my breath until he took the flowers from my hand. “Yeah,” I murmured, fingers brushing mine. “Yeah, they're for you.” That’s when I broke. Not out loud. Not where anyone could hear. But something in me cracked open as he stepped in close, his hand warm on my face like I wasn’t something ruined. Like I was his. Still. “You took your damn time,” he said with a soft rasp, voice threading through my bones like home. “But you made it back.” My forehead pressed against his before I could stop it, the world tilting just enough to pull me into him. I didn’t care if I looked weak. I was weak—dragged home half a man and terrified I’d find an empty porch and a ring left on the counter. “I’m not the same,” I whispered, like maybe if I said it first, he wouldn’t have to. He pulled back just a little, eyes catching mine. “Neither am I.” The breath I let out felt like it came from my soul. I handed him the flowers, or maybe he took them—I don’t remember. All I know is that his arm was around me before I could fall, firm and familiar, grounding me. “I was so damn scared,” I admitted, voice tight and raw. “Thought you’d moved on. Thought… hell, I ain’t worth what I was.” He kissed my jaw. Warm, steady. Real. “Then it’s a good thing I never wanted you for what you were. Just wanted you.” A sound ripped from my chest, something between a breath and a sob, and I leaned into him like I’d drown if I didn’t. “Let’s get you inside,” he said thickly, and when I swayed, he held me tighter. “I am mad,” he muttered as we turned toward the house. “But I ain’t lettin’ you go. You hear me?” “I hear you,” I breathed. Each step back toward the porch was shaky, crutches biting into the ground, but I didn’t care. His arm was around me. The flowers were still in his hand. The sun was going down, shadows stretching long over the dirt—but he was beside me. I came home to him. And that was all I needed.