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He wore two days' worth of stubble and looked as weary as she felt; his hair was disheveled, shirt sleeves were hastily folded up to his elbows, four loosened buttons displayed well defined pectorals and coarse, tightly corkscrewed hair.

Just to see him again, Parker thought, was almost enough but then suddenly, inexplicably, he glanced up from the atlas as if he'd felt her arrival. Bewildered, he rose slowly from the top step of the battered front porch.

His heart lurched, his jaw unhinged.

A brief moment of deferential silence ticked past, long enough for Jarod to gather his wits and—after a reticent pause—cast them aside.

Neither he nor Parker heard the impact of book on wood; no sooner did it slip from his hands Jarod bounded down the steps, met her halfway, drew her into an embrace. "Oh, god," Jarod said softly, exhaling the words. "It took you forever to get here."

He then deposited a chaste kiss atop her head and drew back, but didn't—couldn't—relinquish his hold; a single fingertip traced the paths of tears already cried, a silent vow in each reverent caress: I can't stop the storms, but I'll weather each one with you.

And that, Parker believed, was the true definition of home.

No queries, judgements, blame. No cold, hard rejections, no conditions.

Only acceptance.

At the end of the road.

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