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Jude

T he sun was setting behind the hills, streaking the sky in gold and rose as we sat on the back porch.

Cyclone had his feet kicked up on the railing, a beer in one hand, his free arm slung around my shoulders. I leaned into him, head resting against the solid weight of his chest.

We didn’t talk for a while.

Just listened—to the wind, the birds, the soft rustle of trees.

To the quiet we’d both fought hard to earn.

Then he shifted slightly, his thumb tracing slow circles along my arm.

“What do you want, Jude?”

His voice was low, steady. No pressure. Just truth.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean now that the war’s over. Now that he’s gone. What’s next?”

I sat with the question for a while.

Let it settle in my bones.

Because no one had ever asked me that before.

Not like that.

I took a deep breath.

“I don’t want to disappear again,” I said finally. “I don’t want to live in the shadows. I want a real life. Something I build. Not something I run from or survive through.”

His grip on me tightened just a little. “That’s good,” he said. “That’s really good.”

I looked up at him. “What about you?”

“I want whatever you want,” he said simply. “A house. A home. Somewhere we can park the truck and put up a mailbox with both our names on it.”

I smiled. “You want a mailbox?”

“I want you.”

The words hit me like sunlight—warm and gentle and blinding in the best way.

I reached up and cradled his face in my hands.

“I don’t know how to be normal,” I whispered. “I don’t even know what that looks like anymore.”

He leaned into my touch.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t want normal. I want you. Exactly as you are.”

And right there, with his lips on mine and the world going quiet again, I finally believed it.

I wasn’t lost anymore.

I was found.