I’m coming home, to you. – Elias
Elias
The warehouse smelled like mold, sweat, and gasoline. Rusted scaffolding groaned in the wind. Light flickered through broken panes high above, slicing thin beams into the dust.
I crouched low, boots silent on concrete. Somewhere to my right, Ramirez inched forward, his gun a black shadow in the dark. My earpiece crackled with the hushed breath of our spotter.
“Wolfe, status?”
“Still shadowed,” I murmured. “Target’s pacing. Nervous. Might bolt.”
The buyer was late. The product was late. Everyone inside was ready to explode.
My hand stayed on the grip of my Glock, finger tight but off the trigger.
Just one more night, I told myself.
Then I go home.
Home. The word hit harder than expected. I pictured her curled up on the couch, wrapped in that lavender blanket she loved. Her face half-hidden in a book, feet tucked under her thighs.
She’d be looking at the door.
Still waiting.
Something shifted.
A runner twitched. One of the guards turned too fast. Someone dropped a crate. A gun clicked.
“Shit,” Ramirez muttered.
And then it happened.
The whole place erupted.
Gunfire exploded like a thunderstorm inside a tin can. I ducked behind a pillar as bullets tore through the air. Someone screamed. Someone else shouted. I swung out, fired two rounds, ducked back.
A flashbang went off somewhere behind me.
Ramirez dove toward cover, swearing.
One of ours went down—Collins. Leg twisted beneath him, blood blooming fast.
“Cover me!” I shouted, already moving.
I grabbed Collins by the vest and hauled him across the floor, my other hand still firing. My arms burned. My ears rang. The weight of him pulled like lead.
We barreled through a side door. Rain hit my face like ice.
We ran.
Alive.
Barely.
An hour later, we were holed up in a gutted gas station five blocks out. My knuckles were scraped raw. Collins was unconscious but breathing. Ramirez stitched a graze on his own arm with shaking hands.
I sat on the floor, back against a cold tile wall. Blood dried on my forearm. Not mine. I couldn’t stop staring at it.
My other hand reached into my pocket. Found it.
The keychain.
Tiny. Silver. Shaped like a house.
You always made me feel safe. Like home.
Her voice.
Her laugh.
Her fingers brushing against mine.
I pressed the keychain to my chest and closed my eyes.
I didn’t die. But I could’ve.
And I couldn’t help but think if things went sideways…
Would she have known?
Would she think I just walked away without saying goodbye?
“Wolfe,” Ramirez said quietly. “You good?”
I looked at him.
He nodded to the blood. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t.
Not really.
Because I could still see her face. That night. When I told her I was leaving.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t beg.
She just looked at me like she believed I’d come back.
Like she trusted me to.
And that trust had wrapped itself around my lungs, tightening every day.
The next morning, we wrapped the op.
Two arrests. One fatality. One officer hospitalized. Debrief at precinct.
I sat in the back of the SUV, head against the window, eyes on the city sliding past.
She was home. our home.
Teaching.
Breathing.
Maybe still waiting.
I didn’t deserve that.
But I was going back anyway.
Back at the station, I sat in a stiff plastic chair while the captain flipped through the report.
“Nice work,” he said, flipping the folder closed. “We’ll run forensics and close the file.”
I nodded, jaw tight.
He looked at me for a beat. Then: “You look like shit.”
“Feel like it.”
“Take three days. Unofficial. You’ve earned it.”
I stood. Nodded. Didn’t say a word.
For weeks, I hadn’t been allowed to feel anything.
Not fear. Not love. Not longing.
But as I walked out of that room, it all crashed in.
And my heart said what my lips couldn’t until now:
I’m coming home to you.
This time, nothing’s pulling me away.
