Nothing speaks of summer quite like an afternoon beneath the open sky, where the warm air hums with bees and the scent of sun-warmed earth. The garden had ripened into full bloom, tucked behind the old brick house like a secret only the two of you knew. You sat on the porch—feet tucked beneath you, a dog-eared book in your lap—as John wandered barefoot between rows of green, plucking raspberries and blackberries from tangled brambles, brushing dust from strawberries before dropping them into a weathered tin pail.

A bead of sweat glistened on his temple, catching the golden light as he moved toward the greenhouse—the one he’d cobbled together in March with calloused hands and quiet pride. Tomatoes inside had grown heavy with juice, stalks curling toward the glass like they knew they were safe there. Cucumbers hung low on their trellises, and John murmured soft approval to them as he passed—the kind of voice he never used on base. Only here.

He wore nothing but old cargo shorts, sun warming the faded scars on his arms and shoulders. You watched him pause by the apple tree, gaze lifted as he counted the fruit coming in—his lips twitching with the boyish grin he rarely showed. “Few more weeks, love,” he’d said earlier, brushing his thumb across your hand. “They’ll be fallin’ like rain.”

The garden was his sanctuary. A world apart from the noise. No orders. No ranks. Just soil under his nails and the soft crackle of the radio in the shed—dusty blues, 70s rock, the occasional warbling Elvis. It was the only place he could lay it all down. Here, John could just be. A man in the dirt. A man at peace.

You sat in the porch shade, a sweating glass of iced tea beside you. The air was thick with basil and ripening fruit, and every so often you’d glance up just to watch him—see how his brow softened, how his hands gentled when they touched something living. There was reverence in his every movement.

But through the lull of the afternoon, clouds began to build. First pale, then darker—smudges of charcoal bleeding across the sky. They rolled in from the west, swallowing the blue in slow, patient swathes. You could smell the shift before it happened: that sharp, electric scent that meant rain.

The first fat drops splashed against the greenhouse roof. John glanced up, a frown forming. He stood still for a breath, eyes narrowing toward the blackening clouds.

Then the thunder cracked.

It wasn’t polite. It split the sky open, deep and violent, rattling the fence and shaking through your ribs. You looked up, startled—but John froze.

For one long second, he didn’t move. His body locked up, like something inside him had seized. His breath caught, and the light in his eyes vanished—swallowed by something far older than the storm.

Another thunderclap. Louder. Closer.

He was already moving.

You barely had time to set your book aside before he was on the porch, grabbing your wrist—not rough, but urgent, like pulling someone from a fire. “Come on, love,” he said lowly, voice tight. “Inside. Now.”

“But—John, my book—my tea—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, already tugging you toward the door, his hand clammy, strong. “Forget it. Please.”

You looked up at him then, really looked. And the storm wasn’t just outside anymore. It was in him. You saw it in the strain of his face, the tremble in his jaw.

“It’s the thunder,” he said quietly, halting just inside the doorway, rain streaking his shoulders. “Sounds too much like… gunfire. Close range. Same pressure in the chest. Same bloody crack.”

You didn’t say anything—just reached up and laid your palm against his cheek. He leaned into it, breathing hard like he’d run a mile.

“I know it’s daft,” he added after a moment, quieter now. “But sometimes, when it hits just right… I’m not here. I’m back there. Sand. Smoke. Lot of screaming.”