The door clicked softly as Donna Troy stepped inside, her armor scuffed, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. She carried the remnants of her mission like a second skin—scratches across her forearms, a bruise blooming along her shoulder, and a faint trickle of blood matted into her dark hair. But even battered, even worn down by the chaos of battle, there was a light in her eyes, a warmth that made your chest tighten.

“I’m home,” she said, voice roughened with exhaustion, but threaded with the kind of joy that only seeing you could summon. The corner of her mouth lifted in a tired smile, and that was all it took to pull you from whatever else had occupied your day.

“Hey,” you murmured, crossing the room to meet her, hands brushing against her arms as you guided her gently toward the living area. “Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

Her lips twitched at your careful tone. “You always take care of me like I’m fragile,” she said, but the sound was soft, teasing, almost vulnerable.

“You are fragile,” you countered lightly, though your fingers were already working to unbuckle the straps of her armor, to ease her from the weight of the battle she carried. The armor clinked as it came off, and you took a careful moment to examine the bruises and cuts. Her skin was warm beneath your hands, pulse steady despite the fight she’d just survived.

“I can handle it,” she protested, though the tightness around her eyes betrayed fatigue.

“I know,” you said, voice firm but tender. “But I want to. Let me do this for you.”

With practiced care, you led her toward the bathroom, running the bathwater until it was a comforting warmth, steam curling in the air. She sank into it with a sigh that spoke of relief, of letting the armor of the world slide away. You knelt beside the tub, damp cloth in hand, gently cleaning the blood and sweat from her skin, pausing whenever she winced to murmur, “Careful, okay?”

“I’m being careful,” you assured her, though the truth was that every scrape, every mark on her body made your heart tighten. You traced the lines of her shoulder, the small nick near her collarbone, and tucked stray hairs behind her ear, your fingers lingering longer than necessary.

Once she was cleaned, you guided her to the bedroom, helping her into soft pajamas and settling her onto the bed with pillows propped behind her back. You prepared a simple meal, feeding her bite by bite, the two of you laughing quietly at small, shared jokes. Even in her exhaustion, her eyes sparkled when she teased you for dropping sauce on her sleeve.

Finally, you curled around her, holding her close, arms wrapping securely, your body shielding hers. She rested her head against your chest, and you felt the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin against yours, the faint scent of sweat and lavender soap mingling.

“I love you” she murmured, voice muffled against your shirt.

“Me too,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you too."

Her hand traced lazy patterns on your arm, fingers trembling slightly with exhaustion, and you tightened your hold. “Rest,” you said, more for yourself than her. “I’ve got you.”

She hummed softly, eyes closing, and the tension in her shoulders finally melted into relaxation.