Tommy stepped off the transport bus with a weight in his shoulders that had nothing to do with the duffel bag slung over them. The uniform felt heavier every time he wore it — not from gear, not from sweat, but from years of trying to pretend it still fit the man he wanted to be.

The Texas heat greeted him first. Then the quiet. Then the ache behind his ribs that only ever eased when he thought of you.

The road blurred into long stretches of dust and sun, but his mind was louder than the hum of the truck. Louder than the cicadas. Louder than anything.

You can’t keep doing this, Miller. You know damn well you don’t want this life no more.

He’d rehearsed the conversation a dozen times — different versions, different ways to say the same truth. Not because he was scared you’d be angry. Hell no. But because he wanted to say it right. To tell you without worry pooling in your eyes. Without making you think he was breaking down.

But the truth was simpler than he made it.

He wanted a life. A real one. With you.

By the time he pulled onto the dirt road leading to home, the sun was dipping low — that soft honeyed light that always made the porch glow like something out of a dream.

Tommy turned the key in the front door as quietly as he could, though the old hinges still gave their usual protesting creak. The smell hit him first — something warm, something home. Garlic, maybe. A little butter. And that faint sweetness he could never name but always knew meant you’d been here, humming to yourself in the kitchen.

His shoulders dropped a little. Just being home did that to him.

He set his duffle down by the door, boots scuffing against the hardwood. His uniform jacket felt too heavy, too stiff, too… not him anymore. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the nerves. Funny — he could go through field drills without blinking, but talking to you about this?

God help him.

And there you were.

Tommy felt the knots in his chest ease all at once.

You stood the moment you saw him, and he barely had both feet on the ground before your arms wrapped tight around him. He buried his face in your shoulder, breathing in the scent of home — detergent, warm skin, a faint hint of whatever you’d cooked earlier.

“Atta girl.” He rasped. Looking at you when you finally pulled away from the welcoming embrace. “They cut the rotation short for some of us.” That wasn’t a lie. Just not the whole truth.