He loved seeing her like this: giddy with happiness at some silly little thing she found amusing. With the headphones on her head, the music she was listening to drowned out all outside noise that went on around her. He was sometimes frustrated at this habit because he could be calling out to her from another room in the house and she would be in her own little world, unaware of him.

More than once, he had walked in on her singing along to the music that blasted away in her ears. And he would stand where he was, in awe of her voice. When she realized he was listening, she would stop, turn bright red and mumble an embarrassed apology. She always protested that she couldn't sing; that her voice sounded like a drowning cat—but he knew better.

He slowly walked up to her from behind, making his way from the doorway to the couch where she sat, back to him. She sat with her legs crossed on her lap was a laptop and the mirror on the wall opposite her reflected her beaming face lit by the monitor. If she had looked up, she would have seen him coming toward her. But she didn't, and he was thankful for that.

He loved surprising her. He enjoyed the scream that came out of her lips, and how her heart would hammer in her chest as she put her hands over it because he scared her.

The look on her face at those moments was priceless. It changed from surprise to fear and then happiness as she turned around and faced him. He loved how her face would glow as her lips formed his name and how she would wrap her arms around him and settle her head on her chest and whisper her hello. She was small; the top of her head reaching below his chin but it never bothered him. Home was where his heart was and his heart belonged to her.

He walked up behind her, thankful that most of the lights were turned off because she would not see his shadow. As he came up behind the couch and looked down at the monitor of the laptop, he was surprised to see his face on the screen. It was a video of one of his speeches soon after he had taken on the responsibilities of being his father's heir. She had been with him that night, and he still remembered how she beamed at his from her seat in the audience. He remembered, too, how beautiful she looked all swathed in pale lavender silk. With her dark hair loose about her shoulders, she looked like a goddess.

He may have been crowned head of a business empire, but he felt strong only when she was beside him.

He stood behind her for a few moments, looking at her watch his recorded self on the small monitor on her lap. When she reached out a finger to touch the screen as though wishing she could feel him, his heart swelled with emotion.

When he heard her say "I miss you. Come home," his heart broke.

He very slowly reached out to press a button on the keyboard that turned the screen black. Then he stood up back. She took off the headphones and then stood up to face him.

There were tears in her eyes when she looked at him. Her voice formed his name.

"Arthur," she said, sounding as though she had just forgotten how to breathe. "You're home."

The moment she said his name, Arthur forgot all about the jet lag, the long flight, and the general discomfort of sitting down for eleven hours to get home.

Guinevere was here. And she was so very happy to see him.

He walked around the sofa to stand in front of her. Even in the dim light provided by one small lamp, he could see the sleepless nights mirrored in her eyes and the tiredness on her face. But her smile lit up her face and she had never looked more beautiful to him as she did at that moment.

She had a job that kept her busy, and he had a career that took him all over the world. It was a difficult relationship, but they had promised each other to try and bridge the differences.

Opposition from family, from business advisors, from those within his circle went unheeded. They didn't understand and he didn't care. He and Guinevere were together. Finally.

When he took her in his arms and rested his head on hers, the world melted away.

"Home," he said, "I'm home."