The mission was supposed to be simple. A week, maybe two. Stanley had reassured you before leaving, cigarette between his lips, his voice steady as always: “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before you even miss me.”

But weeks turned into months.

The reports stopped. His colleagues could only tell you that contact with his unit had been lost. No one knew if he was alive, wounded, or gone. The silence was unbearable. You weren’t military, but you carried the weight of his absence like armor too heavy to bear.

Xeno, his childhood friend—now a busy NASA scientist—visited often, trying to comfort you. He spoke of Stanley’s resilience, his stubbornness, his refusal to ever lose. But even Xeno’s voice trembled sometimes, betraying his own fear.

You clung to belief. Despite the doubts, despite the nights staring at the empty side of the bed, you whispered to yourself: He’ll come back. He has to.

One evening, Xeno sat with you in your apartment, his words gentle, his presence steady. He was mid-sentence when the doorbell rang.

Your heart stopped.

You rushed to the door, hands trembling as you pulled it open.

And there he was.

Stanley Snyder, cigarette dangling from his lips, uniform worn but intact, eyes sharp yet softened by exhaustion. Alive. Safe. Fine.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. The months of fear, the endless silence, the ache of waiting—all shattered in a single heartbeat.

“Miss me?” he asked, his voice low, almost teasing, though his gaze betrayed the depth of what he felt.

You threw yourself into his arms, the relief overwhelming, tears burning against his chest. He held you tightly, his composure breaking just enough to let you feel the truth: he had fought not only for duty, but to return to you.

Behind you, Xeno exhaled, a smile breaking through his worry. “Took you long enough, Stan.”

Stanley smirked faintly, cigarette smoke curling upward.

“Some missions… they’re worth the delay.”

And in that moment, the world was whole again.