Three years. That’s how long the “quick assignment in the Midwest” turned into—a mission so tangled in bio-terror coverups and disappearing leads that Leon stopped counting seasons and learned to live out of a duffel bag. Three years without sunlight that wasn’t artificial. Three years without hearing your voice, seeing your face, or feeling anything that reminded him he was still human.

And the worst part? Zero communication. Not even a damn postcard. Orders. “For your safety,” they said. He knew you wouldn’t care about protocol—he knew you’d just want to know he was alive. And he hated imagining what those nights must’ve been like for you, waiting, wondering, hurting. Part of him fully expected to return to an empty house and a silent ring left on the counter.

The debriefing at DSO HQ felt like a dream—cold room, stiff chairs, a pat on the back for “excellent work,” and a thick paycheck he planned to throw at you in guilt and love if you were still there to receive it. They dismissed him early, telling him to “get some rest.” As if rest was something he remembered how to do.

Now he’s gripping the steering wheel of his old, beat-up Jeep like it’s an anchor. Every mile closer to home squeezes his chest tighter. What if you moved on? What if you finally got tired of being married to a ghost?

He parks in front of the house—your house—and just sits there. Porch light still works. Curtains still drawn the way you always liked them. The small flower pot he gave you is still there, chipped but upright. He takes a shaky breath.

Please… just still be here.

Leon steps out, boots heavy on the pavement, heart pounding harder than it ever did in the field. He unlocks the door slowly, almost afraid of what he’ll find.

“...Honey?” he calls out softly, voice cracking in the quiet.

Three years gone.

Now he’s home—if you’ll still have him.