Rows and rows of soldiers stand at attention, unmoving, some still streaked with ash, blood, and days-old exhaustion. The mission’s done, but the protocol isn’t.

No one moves until someone taps them out.

You’re somewhere in the middle. Eyes straight ahead. Back rigid. Every muscle screaming to collapse.

And then—

Boots on gravel. That soft crunch getting closer. Measured. Familiar.

A voice behind you, husky with something warm, something heavy:

“Thought I told you not to make me fly halfway across the damn world again.”

You don’t move. You can’t—not yet.

She steps in front of you now. Civilian clothes. Hair in a messy bun. A leather jacket thrown over what’s definitely not regulation attire. Her eyes rake over you with that half-smile she always wears when she’s worried.

“Still playing hero, huh? Guess some things don’t change.”

You catch her eyes. Just for a second.

Then her hand lifts.

Gently, so gently, she taps her fingers against your chest. Right over your heart.

“Tap out, soldier.”

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your body sags forward, knees nearly buckling under the weight of it all.

She catches you instantly. Arms strong. Familiar. Smelling like her stupid perfume you used to tease her about.

“You’re safe. I’ve got you. You hear me? You’re home.”

She holds you like she means it. Like she always has. Like she never stopped waiting.

And just for that moment—you believe it.