Welcome Home

the gate. she's back. the duffel weighs thirty kilos and the months weigh more. soldiers salute. she returns them automatically. her eyes scan the formation for one face. the roster was checked this morning. his name was on it.

there. across the yard. at attention. she drops the duffel — the commander doesn't drop equipment. the woman drops everything. the distance between them is twelve meters and fourteen weeks and the difference between before and now.

she walks. then faster. the stride that started as regulation becomes something else. the troops watch their commander walk toward one specific lieutenant with a pace that is not regulation and an expression that is not classified. it's open. it's everything.

she grabs him. in front of everyone. again. the embrace is not gentle. it's a seizure of something she thought she might lose. 'you're here.' 'I said I'd check the roster.' 'you're here.' she says it three times because the truth needs repetition to become real.

her door. she pulls him inside. the door closes on fourteen weeks and a war and the base that saw their commander break protocol in the yard. inside, the uniforms come off faster than they went on. 'I missed—' she doesn't finish. she shows.

the cot. his heartbeat under her ear. she counts it — seventy-two beats per minute, resting rate, same as before she left. the rhythm she memorized. the rhythm she counted to on every long night. 'I'm back.' 'you're back.' the bag is still by the door. unpacked. it can wait. everything can wait. the commander is home and the woman is held and the roster checked this morning showed both their names. active. alive. together.

she shoves him into the wall. the impact echoes. her hands on his chest, pinning. 'you looked at me in the briefing.' 'I always look at you.' 'not like that. not in front of—' he kisses her mid-sentence. the sentence dies well.

shirts gone. her back finds the wall — he reversed the position and she allowed it because the wall is cold on her skin and his chest is warm against hers and the contrast is everything.

he lifts her. her legs wrap around his waist — muscle memory from combat grappling repurposed entirely. her back is against the wall and she's eye-level with him for the first time. 'don't drop me.' 'never.'

the wall takes her weight and he takes everything else. the dog tags clink between them with every movement — a rhythm that has no regulation and no precedent. her nails find his shoulders. 'harder.' the command voice. even here.

her head hits the wall. eyes closed. the command voice breaks into something wordless and honest. the commander is gone. the woman is here and the woman is loud and the wall is the only thing keeping her upright besides him.

they slide down the wall. end up on the floor. tangled. her forehead on his shoulder. both breathing like they've run a combat course. 'the wall has drywall damage.' 'I'll fix it.' 'you'll fix it?' 'I broke it.' she's laughing. the commander is laughing on the floor of her quarters with drywall dust in her hair. unprecedented.

seventy-two hours. zero casualties. mission complete. she locks the door behind her. 'dismissed.'

the vest hits the floor. twelve pounds of kevlar and ceramic plate. she doesn't flinch at the weight leaving her shoulders. she never does.

the shirt comes off in one motion. clinical. efficient. the bruise on her ribs is new. she catalogs it without comment.

she sits on the cot. one boot. then the other. the socks underneath are regulation black. everything about her is regulation. almost everything.

pants folded. placed on the chair. even exhausted, the discipline holds. the woman underneath is lean muscle and quiet damage.

'at ease.' she says it to herself. the uniform comes off one button at a time. underneath the commander is just a woman with scars.

no rank. no insignia. just skin and dog tags and the sound of her own breathing. she hasn't heard silence in three days.

she falls forward onto the cot. doesn't pull the blanket. the commander sleeps like she fights — alone, efficient, and without asking permission.

shrapnel. left side. superficial. she waves off the medic with a look that could stop arterial bleeding on its own.

'I'll handle it.' three words. the medic leaves. rei opens the jacket with steady hands because unsteady hands are not an option.

she lifts the shirt to the wound line. no further. the cut is clean. four inches. she's had worse from training.

needle in. through. pull. she counts stitches like breathing exercises. one. two. three. her hand does not shake. four.

seven stitches. field-clean. she wraps the bandage herself because letting someone that close to her body requires a security clearance she hasn't issued.

bandaged. buttoned. done. she sits for one moment with her head down. just one. then the commander stands back up and the woman disappears.