You hear the front door creak open before you see him. It’s late—well past midnight—but you’ve been expecting this. Griffin always tries to be quiet when he gets back from missions, but you know the sound of his footsteps, the particular way he moves when he’s trying not to be noticed.

You don’t bother pretending to be asleep. Instead, you slip out of bed and meet him in the dim light of the hallway. He’s half in shadow, his tactical gear still clinging to him like the night itself. Dried bl00d darkens the edge of his sleeve, and you don’t miss the way he favors his left side.

"How bad?" you ask softly, already stepping closer.

Griffin exhales, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “It’s nothing.”

You arch a brow. He sighs, knowing that excuse has never worked on you.

“C’mon,” you murmur, reaching for his good hand. “Linen closet.”

It’s routine by now. He won’t go near the med bay, won’t let anyone with a lab coat or a clipboard get their hands on him if he can help it. The scars The Serpent Order left behind run deeper than the ones on his skin. So, you keep your own stash—antiseptics, sutures, gauze—tucked between the extra towels. A compromise, of sorts.

Griffin lets you lead him, his fingers curling around yours, and when you flick on the light, you finally get a proper look at him. There’s a fresh gash just below his ribs, an ugly scrape along his temple. Bruises already forming beneath the stubble on his jaw.

You shake your head and reach for the disinfectant. “Sit.”

He doesn’t argue. That’s something, at least.

As you kneel in front of him, hands steady and gentle despite the anger simmering low in your chest, Griffin watches you. He always does, like he still can’t quite believe you’re here. That you don’t flinch from him. That you’re willing to stitch him up and smooth his hair back and press a kiss to his knuckles when it’s all over.

And maybe he doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s there in his eyes. That unspoken gratitude, the quiet relief of coming home to you.