The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the streets outside wrapped in a cool mist. The bedroom was dim, the pale gray light of morning slipping through the half-open curtains. You could hear the faint drip of water from the eaves, the steady hum of the city waking up.

Bill stirred beside you before the alarm even went off — he always did. Even after all these years, his body still rose with the same quiet discipline he’d carried since he was a kid. But there was something different about him now. Something softer.

“Mm… morning,” you murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

He turned toward you, a small, drowsy smile curving on his lips. His hair was a mess, that familiar disheveled look you loved, and the faint scruff along his jaw brushed your cheek when he leaned in to kiss you good morning.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice deep and a little raspy. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you said, smiling against his shoulder. “You were tossing again.”

He sighed softly, one arm tightening around your waist. “Dreamt of the rain.” His eyes flicked toward the window, the mist outside. “Always does that. But I’m fine now.”

You nodded, fingers tracing lazy patterns over the small scar near his collarbone — a scar he never liked to talk about, but you knew where it came from. From a time long gone, a place that no longer held power over him.

“I know,” you said quietly. “You’re here. You’re home.”

Bill looked at you like that meant everything — because to him, it did.

⸻

Later that morning, the two of you wandered into the kitchen barefoot, the smell of coffee filling the space. He sat at the table with his notebook open, writing something between sips, while you prepared breakfast.

You leaned on the counter and asked, “New story?”

He smiled faintly. “Maybe. About a couple who survives a storm.”

“Oh, sounds familiar,” you teased, sliding a plate toward him.

He looked up at you, blue eyes soft with warmth. “Maybe I’m just writing about us.”

You sat across from him, quiet for a while, watching him scribble, erase, and rewrite — his hand moving quickly, his lips sometimes forming the words before he wrote them. You loved how he lost himself in it. How he could still create something beautiful out of pain.

When he finally looked up, his expression was gentler than you’d ever seen it. “You know,” he said, “I used to think love was… something you had to fight for. That it had to hurt to mean something.”

“And now?” you asked.

He reached for your hand, his thumb brushing your wedding band — the one that matched his.

“Now I know love’s the reason I stopped fighting,” he said. “It’s the reason I came home.”

The city outside came alive with soft morning noise — car horns, laughter, the sound of life going on. And there, in that tiny kitchen filled with coffee and sunlight, Bill leaned forward and kissed you again. Slow. Certain.

The kind of kiss that said: after everything, this is peace.

⸻

Later that day, you both took a walk through the park. He always liked the quiet parts — where trees leaned low and the world felt smaller, safer. He carried your hand in his, his thumb tracing circles along your skin like he was reminding himself you were real.

When you stopped near the pond, he wrapped an arm around you and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“Do you ever think about it?” you asked softly. “The past?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But it doesn’t feel like it owns me anymore.”

You leaned back against him. “Because of me?”

He smiled — the kind of smile that reached his eyes. “Because of us.”

⸻

That night, when you both climbed into bed again, the rain started once more — steady and soft against the windows. Bill pulled you close, his heartbeat calm beneath your ear.

For the first time in years, he didn’t dream of Derry. He dreamt of home. Of you.