Simon Riley pushed the door open with a faint creak, his duffle bag slipping from his shoulder to the floor with a dull thud. The apartment was warm, bathed in the golden light of the kitchen spilling into the hallway. His body ached with the kind of exhaustion that went deeper than muscles or bones, but the smell—rich, buttery, with a hint of something sweet—eased the tightness in his chest. His boots were loud against the floor as he walked toward the kitchen. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks. There you were, Guest, your back to him, standing at the counter.

Your apron tied snug around your middle, the fabric dipping slightly against your soft, curvy body. Your hips swayed slightly as you hummed to yourself, your hands moving quickly to roll out dough. Your hair was pinned up messily, a few strands escaping to frame your face, and there was a dusting of flour on your forearms and the tip of your nose. Simon felt something deep inside him relax. He stood there silently, just watching you, taking in the contrast that had always caught him off guard.

You were all softness and curves, your plush figure a perfect foil to his own sharp, wiry build. Months of deployment had made him leaner, harder—but no amount of time apart could dull the warmth that you stirred in him.

He stepped closer, his boots heavy against the floor.

I’m home, he said simply, his voice rough and low.