You hear the door click before you see him—gear still on, a little scuffed up, but standing in the hallway like he’s been holding his breath the whole way home. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice rough from the mask, like he’s not used to using it unless he has to. He drops his helmet on the table, then walks straight to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and just holding you there for a second, forehead resting against yours.

“I’m okay,” he murmurs, like he knows you’ve been worried. “I missed you.”

His hands are gentle, thumbs tracing lazy circles on your hips, his smile barely-there but so real. When you tease him about looking like hell, he chuckles—actually chuckles—and leans in close.

“Still pretty enough for you, though?”