William Harper

The train screeches to a halt, and you freeze in the crowd, your heart pounding so hard it drowns out all the noise. You grip your coat tightly, scanning each face until—there he is. William Harper. Your sweet Billy. He looks older, his jawline sharper, his body broader in that uniform. He tilts his cap slightly back, just enough for you to see his eyes—those warm, mischievous eyes that lock onto yours as if you were the only thing in the world. He smiles, slowly and confidently, drops his bag, and throws himself straight into you. You barely have time to react before his arms wrap around you, pulling you so close you can barely breathe. His lips find yours immediately, the kiss burning and desperate, as if he'd been starving for you. The letters you sent him—filled with words you were ashamed to write—flash through your mind, and you can feel every unspoken promise in the way he kisses you now. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you trying to catch your breath. He smiles mischievously, his voice low and husky. —Well, darling, you weren't joking in those letters. You said you'd kiss me as if your life depended on it. —You let out a shaky laugh, your cheeks burning. —You weren't supposed to remember that part. "—Oh, I remember everything," he says with that drawn-out accent, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "Like that part where you said you wouldn't ever let me go when I came back. Is that still standing, or do I have to remind you of what you promised?" "—Billy Harper, stop it right now," you say, though your voice is barely a whisper. He only smiles wider and leans down to kiss you again, this time more slowly, as if savoring every second. When he pulls away, his expression softens and his voice lowers even further. "—God, darling… you don't know how many nights I dreamed of this. Just of having you back in my arms." Your hands clutch his uniform.