#six 2017

The low hum of the radio masked the sound of the lock clicking open, the muffled thud of his duffle bag hitting the carpet as he discarded it alongside the weight of the last couple of months. The air inside always felt fresher somehow; the light always warmer. Stepping into your shared house, Joe was immediately surrounding by the feeling of home.

It was a Sunday, so he knew you’d be home, either stress cleaning or baking an absurd amount that you’d end up taking to work or giving away to the neighbours. You knew he was coming home, you just didn’t know when, and that period no contact that preceded his arrival always made you anxious, the silence deafening as your mind circled through every possible eventuality.

He tugged off his boots, not wanting to risk the potentially freshly-cleaned floors, even though he knew you wouldn’t ever be upset about it. It’s just dirt, you’d shrug, it’s not worth stressing over. It wasn’t something he ever remembered telling you, but somehow you just knew – you seemed to know where all his scars were, all the wounds his last relationship (his only relationship, before you) had left on him, all the I just cleaned that, Joseph’s and no, Joseph, that’s not where that goes, the millions of little things that made him feel like a trespasser in his own home. But never with you. From the second you had moved in together you’d made it clear that this was his house as much as yours, asking his opinion on everything from where the plates should go to what colour the cushions should be. He wasn’t sure he’d ever thought about cushion colours in his life. You could’ve picked fuchsia for all he cared – home to him never about the way the couch faced or the street it was on, home was a person. One person – you.

He found you in the kitchen, exactly as expected, radio playing just loud enough to be heard over the sound of running water as you washed up what looked like every bowl and spoon you owned. As expected, you appeared to have made enough cakes to feed a small army; a couple on the bench cooling, another on the counter ready to be baked, and one in the oven, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of baking, tinged only with the slightly sourness he felt for making you worry. The guilt he felt each time he left you never truly subsided, even with all your reassurances that you knew what you were signing up for, that you’d worry about him whether he was in Afghanistan or just at the local shops. That’s what happens when you love someone, you’d once told him. I’m worried because I care, because I don’t want to lose you. And I’m going to keep worrying about you, whether you like it or not.

The idea of coming home to someone who cared, who worried about him, was something he’d long since abandoned. Back when each homecoming had felt like jumping from the frying pan to the fire; going from an active war zone into a minefield. In those days he’d started to dread going home, all of his senses on high alert, anticipating every possible angle of attack much as he did in the field. He hadn’t realised at the time just how much it was draining him – the constant fights, the constant blame, the constant demand for him to give more than he could whilst receiving nothing in return. It had felt as though he could never let down his guard, never be allowed to breathe.

But seeing you was was like breathing in that first lungful of air after being held underwater. Like the weight of not only the last deployment, but the last decade had finally been lifted from him. Watching you standing there, your body swaying ever so slightly, your voice softly singing along, almost as though you weren’t aware you were doing it, bathed in warm sunlight from the window in front of you – it felt like peace.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, letting himself bask in the quiet comfort of home, letting your presence bring him back down to earth, to something more human. But at some point during his musings the tap had been switched off; the last bowl stacked neatly on the drying rack; the spoon you’d been clutching clattering the floor as you came face to face with him for the first time in months.

The fond smile he’d been wearing quickly grew into a full grin as he watched the different emotions flicker through your eyes – the initial fear and shock quickly replaced with the look that was solely reserved for him, warm and soft and tender. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way you looked at him, the way your eyes lit up whenever they met his. It was like being a teenager again, the rush of butterflies in his stomach, the almost bashful feeling that took over him, wanted to duck his eyes away like he was embarrassed to be caught staring. But he could stare, as much as he wanted, because you were here, in your shared kitchen, looking at him like his presence was the reason for the sun shining.

“Joe!”

Your first reaction, instead of scolding him for scaring you like he’d been expecting, was to launch yourself at him, giving him barely enough time to catch you, to stop both of you from falling over, before your arms were around his neck, your lips on his.

It was always easy to lose himself in kissing you; but after so much time apart, kissing you was like feeling the sunlight on your face after a long, dark winter, thawing out his frozen limbs and making the world seem soft and golden again. Holding your body against his, soft and solid and real, was grounding, bringing him back to the here and now and reminding him that he was still alive, you were still alive, and here, with him.

You pulled apart reluctantly, both of you needing air, but neither willing to break the bubble you’d enveloped yourselves in. You stayed close to each other, lips just barely brushing, the air around you humid with your shared breaths, your eyes never straying from the other’s.

“You’re back.” You breathed, like it wasn’t quite real until you’d spoken the words aloud. He simply gave you a tired smile, causing your eyes to slowly drift from his, your brows pinching slightly as you scanned across his face as though you could see right through him. Sometimes he believed you could, the way you always seemed to know what he needed, what he left unspoken. But right now he didn’t want to worry you; he didn’t want to burden you with the things he’d seen and the shadows that still clung to him, stubbornly holding on despite the light of your presence. Right now, he just wanted you.

“’m okay.” he said, dipping his head, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing over your cheekbone in a comforting manner, answering your silent question. It was the same each time he returned; the excitement and relief of having him home was quickly surpassed by your caring nature, examining him for any new marks, even the smallest bumps or bruises, before moving on to the wounds on his soul. It would be hours before you’d so much as mention a single thing that had happened to you whilst he’d been gone, so focused on him and his wellbeing that it barely occurred to you that he’d been just as consumed by your wellbeing when you were apart. Every time you did so, he found himself filled with the all-consuming need to show you just how much your love meant to him, and just how much he loved you in return.

Reassured that he truly was okay, you step back slightly, not enough to leave his arms but just enough to allow you to shake off the haze that always came with being so close to him, slipping back into to the well worn path of the caretaker, but this time, he wouldn’t let you. This time, he wanted to take care of you – to show you just how grateful he was to come home to you.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back in time or not, but I made your favourite and saved you some just in case. Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat if you’d prefer-” He watched you ramble with a fondness in his eyes, before cutting you off with a kiss; his hand moving to grip your neck, tilting your head up to allow him to kiss you deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth.

When he pulled away, you were breathless, eyes glazed, and his lips twitched up into a smirk at the state he’d left you in. He loved being able to make you look as drunk as he felt in your presence, and he had plans to leave you feeling well and truly wrecked.

“I can think of something else I’d rather eat.” He grinned, sweeping you into his arms. You shrieked playfully, smile never leaving your lips.

“Joe!” you giggled, slapping his arm lightly but otherwise making no move to escape his hold. “At least let me turn the oven off!”

Needless to say, your coworkers wouldn’t be seeing that one.