It’s nothing and everything.
I make a sound—part laugh, part sob—and lean into him like I want to disappear inside that voice.
He kisses me.
Rough at first, like he’s been starved for it. Then slower. Like he can’t believe he has the time.
One hand slips to the back of my neck, cradling me there. I soften into it, a quiet breath catching in my throat as I lean into the warmth and steadiness of his hold, like I’ve been waiting for this anchor all along. The other stays curved at my cheekbone, holding me still while he drinks me in.
I kiss him back with everything I’ve got.
Every silent ache. Every breath I didn’t take while he was gone.
His lips part against mine, and I whisper it.
“I love you.”
The moment I say it, he stills. Like it’s the first time he’s hearing it all over again.
His breath catches between us. His hand tightens, just a little, at the back of my neck. Like it knocked the air out of him.
He leans in again.
Kisses me slow this time. Like I’m something sacred.
When he pulls back, his eyes are darker. Brighter. Wrecked and steady all at once.
He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, gaze never leaving mine.
And then he says it.
Low.
Rough.
Quiet like prayer.
“I love you too.”
Just that.
Just me.
I exhale shakily, pressing my forehead to his. My fingers curl in the fabric at his shoulders.
His hand lowers between us.
For a second, I think he’s just pulling me closer, but then I feel it: the brush of cool metal in his palm. He draws something out of his jacket pocket, the movement slow, careful.
It’s the compass.
The one he never let go of, but decided I was worthy of holding it. And before he left, I quietly shifted it back to him. A reminder to come home.
He presses it gently into my hand, closing my fingers around it like it means more than words could hold.
“It’s always pointed here,” he says softly, thumb brushing the back of my knuckles. “I just didn’t know it until you.”
He wraps his arms around me again—tighter now. Like I’m the center of something he thought he’d lost.