Rain hit the windows in soft taps, the kind of Edinburgh drizzle that never really stopped—just paused now and then to catch its breath. The fire was on, kettle humming faint in the background, and her boots were still wet from the walk back from the corner shop. You were barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, the way she liked—like home was something tangible she could come back to.

Soap—Joanne, when the war wasn’t calling—leaned against the doorway, arms folded over the faded gray hoodie she always stole back from your closet. Mud still on her cargo shorts. That damn grin in her eyes before it ever hit her mouth.

“You know,” she said, voice roughened by wind and whisky, “I’ve cleared buildings faster than you chop onions.”

The teasing was old, familiar. Safe. But there was something underneath it tonight—something quieter. She stepped into the room, slid behind you, arms strong around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“I missed this,” she muttered. “Not the quiet—you.”

She pressed a kiss just behind your ear, sigh soft and shaky like it’d been bottled up since the last mission. Then, deadpan:

“Also, Ghost owes me fifty quid. Said I’d forget our anniversary.” A pause. Then, quieter—real: “Never forget you, love. Not once. Not ever.”