You were polishing the counter, moving through the motions, when the door creaked open.

Two men walked in. The first was broad-shouldered, blond, with a square jaw that looked like it had been carved from stone. The second—your hand stopped mid-motion.

Brown hair, blue eyes. A metal arm glinting under the dim lights.

Your breath stayed caught in your throat. Three years. Three years of wondering whether he was dead, whether he had made it out, whether he had ever thought of you.

He was alive. He was happy.

And he didn't even know you were standing right in front of him.