You’re already standing when the door bursts open.

It’s him.

Hair a bit grayer. Eyes meaner. A scar running through the corner of his brow like a cruel tally of years spent without you. But it’s him. It’s really him.

He stops in the doorway like he’s forgotten how to breathe. His chest rises and falls too quickly. One hand’s still clutching a crowbar—bloody. The other just… hangs there.

You speak first.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

That cracks something in him—not rage, not defiance. Just silence. The kind of silence that belongs to someone who remembers the sound of your laughter better than his own voice.

“You’re alive,” he says, voice wrecked. “Jesus.”

“Not for you,” you whisper. “Not anymore.”

Billy steps forward, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. The door slams behind him like it’s closing off a world that never wanted the two of you to find each other again.

“Is that what they told you?” he asks, low and dangerous.

You stare him down, throat tightening. “What was I supposed to do? You went to war. And I had to disappear.”

His fists clench. “I went to war because they took you from me. And now I find out you’re alive, locked in this sterile little tomb, and I’m just supposed to walk away? Pretend you died so they can sleep better at night?”

“I screamed,” you choke. “I screamed until my voice gave out. I begged them to tell you. I begged for a phone. A pen. Anything.”

He doesn’t speak, just looks at you like it’s killing him not to hold you.

Then, barely above a whisper: “Do you still wear it?”

You don’t answer. Just lift your left hand.

The ring is there. A bit dull. Scratched. But real. Still warm from your skin.

His jaw tightens. His eyes close. And something breaks inside him.

“I don’t give a damn what they told you,” he murmurs. “You’re still my wife. I never stopped being yours. Paper can rot. Lies can fade. But you—” He swallows hard. “You were mine before all this. You’re still mine now.”

You cross the room before you can talk yourself out of it. Fists pressed to his chest. Tears soaking into the collar of his shirt. He wraps his arms around you like he’s both protecting you and begging you to stay.

“I hate you,” you whisper, fingers clutching the fabric at his back. “I hate you for leaving.”

“I hate me more,” he breathes against your hair. “But I swear to God, I’ll burn this whole bloody world down if it means I get to take you home.”