Work Text:
The knocks on the door were soft, but insistent. She looked through the peephole and didn’t hesistate to open the door. There he was, disheveled, dirty and the shoes he wore were almost soleless. But he was home. For that is what she was to him. He gathered her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. She held on tight, squeezing so hard she thought she’d leave bruises on his skin. They hardly noticed that the door was wide open still and that they had fallen to their knees in their embrace. He was home. He kept whispering into her hair. “I’m home, I’m home, my home.”