She was standing at the kitchen island, her back to me, barefoot on the cool grey tiles, wearing one of my old, oversized Palace training shirts that came down to her mid-thigh. Her dark hair was tied up in a loose, messy knot at the back of her neck. She was humming along to the radio, stirring something in a pan on the hob.
She heard the click of the door and turned, and the smile that crossed her face was immediate and unguarded and so beautiful it made my chest ache.
She crossed the kitchen in three quick steps and walked straight into me, her arms going around my neck, pulling me down to her. I dropped my bag on the floor and held her, and she kissed me properly, warmly, with both hands cupping my face, the way she always did when I had been away too long. She smelled of something floral and clean, her shampoo or her perfume or just her, and I breathed it in and felt the last two weeks begin to dissolve.
