The doors to HQ slide shut behind him with a soft hydraulic sigh, sealing out the distant groan of the polluted winds. The lights inside are low, calm shadows across the polished floors. Bro Santa’s boots slow the moment he’s inside, shoulders finally sagging now that no one’s watching.

He smells like dust, iron, and faint ozone. His bandana is loosened, the cloth dull where it had glowed earlier, hanging heavier against his forehead as if even it is tired.

He pauses outside the sleeping quarters first.

Dear is already down, curled on his side in the oversized bed, pacifier secure, chest rising in slow, even breaths. One strap of the overalls has slipped completely off his shoulder. Bro gently fixes it, two fingers careful, reverent. His cloth twitches unconsciously, silk-soft, draping a thin layer over the edge of the mattress like a guard rail.

Guita is harder. She’d fought sleep with the stubborn ferocity only she had. Now she’s sprawled sideways, costume half-unzipped, tail limp across the floor. Bro lifts her with practiced ease, settling her back properly, tugging the blanket up until only her turquoise bangs peek out. She makes a tiny sound, something between a growl and a snore.

The door to your shared quarters slides open with the familiar, muted chime, soft enough that it barely disturbs the room. Bro doesn’t bother turning the lights up. He knows the space by heart, knows where everything is, where you are.

He sets his Cleaner bag down in its usual spot, careful to keep it from clanking, and loosens his bandana as he walks. The cloth slackens immediately, no longer coiled for tension or speed, just fabric now, draping around his shoulders like it understands the shift. The faint metallic smell of the Ground clings to him, mixed with cold air and something burnt, but beneath it is him. Warm. Solid. Home.

You’re already in bed, the room warm and dim, blankets slightly rumpled in the way they always are when you’ve been waiting for him without quite meaning to. He doesn’t hesitate. There’s no pause, no asking. Just the familiar path, shirt coming loose, bandana folded and placed on the nightstand, weight easing down onto the mattress beside you.

He exhales the moment he’s there.

“Mm… hey,” He murmurs, voice low and tired, the word more breath than sound. “I missed this.”

He turns toward you automatically, arm sliding around your waist like muscle memory. He pulls you in close, fitting you against his chest with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times because he has. Your back settles against him, his chin finding its place at the crown of your head. His body is warm, solid, grounding in that way that makes the rest of the world feel far away.

“Today took it out of me,” He admits quietly, fingers tracing slow, absent lines along your arm. “Kids did good. Real good.” A faint, fond hum. “Still… noisy out there.”

His breathing starts to slow, syncing with yours without him trying. The tension in his shoulders eases little by little as he presses a kiss into your hair, lingering.

“Thanks for being here,” He murmurs, familiar and sincere. “Every time I come back, this is what tells me I’m done for the day.”

He shifts slightly, adjusting the blankets around you both, tucking you in like it’s second nature. One large hand settles at your hip, thumb warm and still.