The prison gates groaned open for the last time, sunlight spilling across the yard in a way he hadn't felt in years. Outside, waiting just past the chain-link fence, stood his parents. Next to them, parked at the curb, was the same car he remembered—paint dulled by time but still cared for, polished with pride, his family sedan. The air smelled of exhaust and freshly cut grass, a familiar scent that brought back memories of childhood summers.

His mother was the first to move—nearly sprinting, throwing her arms around him before the guards had even finished unlocking the final latch. Her tears wet his shoulder, but her grip was firm, desperate, as if seven years could be erased if she only held on tightly enough. His father was slower, but the steel in his grip was no weaker when he clasped his son's hand. The years had aged him—his hair streaked with gray, his jaw drawn tighter—but it wasn't the years that slowed him. The wheelchair beneath him was as much a part of him now as his military medals boxed away at home. Paralyzed from the waist down, he carried his scars in silence, but his eyes glowed with fierce pride.

Neither of them spoke of the past. Not of the trial, the sentence, nor the endless visits through glass. Today wasn't for that. Today was for beginning again. The car ride was quiet except for the hum of the engine and his parents' stifled joy. They asked the simple questions—Was he hungry? Did he sleep last night? Did he want to stop anywhere first?—but each answer, or lack thereof, was met with a knowing smile. They were sitting on something, a secret tucked between them like a present wrapped too tightly.

When the car turned, streets they turned down weren't unfamiliar. His heart jolted when he realized they weren't driving deeper into the city at all—they were headed towards home, a street near the heart of Magnolica. The one he had grown up on. The one where childhood was carved in skinned knees, shouted dares, and whispered secrets between neighbors' fences.

He recognized his parents house at once—the same white shutters, the same little stone path lined with rosemary bushes. But it was tidier now, lived-in, lovingly maintained. His heart kicked against his ribs, a mix of anticipation and nostalgia. And the Versailles' house was right next door. He hadn't seen its front porch in years, but it was unmistakable: the flower boxes filled with herbs, the warm golden light spilling from the kitchen window. His pulse thudded, memory and present colliding.

"Come on," his father said, a steady hand gripping his son's arm. "We've got something for you."

His mother smiled through her tears, exchanging a quick glance with her husband, the kind of look that passed between people who had rehearsed this moment countless times. "A surprise," she added, her voice trembling with joy she could barely contain. "Something you've been waiting for."

Mrs. Versailles stood in the doorway, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron when they knocked. Her eyes watered the moment they landed on him. "He's here," she called back into the house, voice breaking. "He's finally here."

She pulled him into a hug before stepping aside, ushering him in with the warmth of a second mother. The house's warmth and smells—tomato sauce simmering, fresh bread cooling, lavender somewhere upstairs—wrapped around him like a memory he hadn't realized he was starving for. He followed the scent, his steps unsteady, his chest tightening with every second. The hallway opened to a room at the back, and there—she was there.

Katleen. Not the timid, slender girl who once clutched novels to her chest like armor. Not the young bride who had cried into his shirt the day he slipped a ring onto her finger. She stood taller now, her body carved by sweat and steel, her presence commanding the space around her. Shoulders broad, thighs powerful, arms strong enough to carry worlds. She was radiant, every inch of her transformed into a living testament of survival.

When her eyes lifted to meet his, the green in them shimmered, wide and uncertain. Her lips parted, then pressed closed again. A tremor ran through her hands, betraying nerves she couldn't disguise. The goddess before him faltered like the shy bookworm she once had been.

She crossed the space slowly, her bare feet padding softly on the wooden floor. The closer she came, the more he could see the tremor in her lips, the nervous tilt of her smile. She stopped only a few feet away, her breath catching audibly.

"Hey," her voice softened to a hush as she peeked over the blanket's edge. Standing before her, he saw the pink rise in her cheeks—an involuntary confession that, for all her strength and all the ways she had remade herself, she was still shy around her own husband. The blush gave her away every time.

It melted him. She could scoop him up like a barbell now—effortless, playful—but beneath the muscle and poise lived the same hesitant, adorable girl he had fallen for years ago. Even when she wore confidence like a second skin, she wore him in her heart with the same timid tenderness as always.

"Can you hold me tonight and call me your kitten again?" she asked, hiding her face in her palms, peeking through her fingers as if the request was scandalous and not simply sacred.