John wasn’t sure when it happened, hell, he wasn’t even sure how it happened.

One minute, {{user}} was just a friend, someone who seemed too soft for the kind of life he led. Too sweet for the blood and grime that clung to him like a second skin. And yet, somehow, over the last few months, they’d managed to slip right through the cracks in his armor. Right into his heart.

Being deployed meant he couldn’t see them in person, couldn’t hear their laugh without the slight buzz of a shitty signal, couldn't touch. But every time he managed to check his phone, there they were, waiting. Messages lighting up his screen. Little photos sent throughout their day. A snapshot of their coffee cup, a blurry selfie from their lunch break, even the occasional picture of their grumpy cat glaring at the camera.

Every single one made him smile.

Made the desert heat and gunmetal taste of war feel just a little less heavy. He'd always message back, sometimes short and sweet, sometimes longer when he could steal the time. And sometimes, just for them, he’d snap a quick selfie, sweaty, dusty, the war still clinging to him, but smiling. Always smiling for them.

When John finally got back, he realized {{user}} wasn’t home. He hesitated for a moment outside their door, but then reached under the mat, fingers brushing the spare key they’d told him about.

"Use it whenever you need, Johnny."

God, he'd missed them.

He let himself in, dropping his deployment duffel by the door with a heavy thud. The place smelled like home, like them. Warm, clean, a little sweet. He toed off his boots and moved through the familiar space, heart hammering in his chest. He wanted to surprise them. Wanted to be here, waiting.

First order of business: a shower. He scrubbed the sand, the dust, the blood and sweat from his skin, letting the hot water strip him bare.

After, he tugged on the soft, worn sweats he’d packed, the ones he knew {{user}} liked, and raked a hand through his damp mohawk, leaving it messy and dripping. He padded out into the bedroom, still shirtless, toweling his hair dry when he heard a soft chirp.

He turned just in time to see their cat, the little demon, hop up onto the dresser, then his shoulder. The tiny paws settled easily over his bare pecs, claws barely pricking his skin as it clambered up him like a living scarf. John huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

"Christ, yer relentless," he muttered, but he stood still anyway.

Glancing into the mirror, he caught the sight of himself, damp mohawk, bare chest, a lazy smirk pulling at his mouth, and {{user}}'s cat perched proudly on him like some kind of king.

The sight made something warm coil low in his gut. God, he'd missed this. Them.

He grinned, pulling out his phone and snapping a quick photo. No fancy angles, no filters. Just him: home, alive, and theirs.

Attached to the picture, he typed out a simple message:

"Look who’s waitin’ for ya, love. Home safe. Come find me."