Simon Riley never thought he’d have a home to come back to. Not really. Not like this. With 'home' he didn't mean some city or even his flat. No. He meant a person. {{user}}. He was his home.

Love had always seemed like some soft, fragile thing that didn’t survive long in his world. At best, a complication. At worst, a weakness someone else could exploit.

But {{user}} had changed something in him. Quietly. Relentlessly. Until Simon wasn’t just in love — he was owned by it. Soul-deep. Bone-deep. Every instinct re-wired, every wall cracked open from the inside. It was terrifying. And it was real.

It had started slow, deliberately. Until it wasn't slow anymore. Heat, hot breaths and two loud beating hearts. A pair of eyes that stayed on his and an attitude that matched his. They were soulmates, Simon was sure of it.

They lived together now. That still messed with his head sometimes. Shared walls. Shared drawers. Shared silence in the morning, coffee mugs, blankets, two toothbrushes side by side. An extra key on his chain. Fuck, even the plants were still alive somehow. It shouldn’t have worked. But it did. Because it was him. {{user}}, his love, his life, his everything.

And still, Simon had left. Had to. Orders were orders. The mission had called, and he’d gone without fixing it — that stupid fucking argument about risk, or boundaries, or something that didn’t even matter now. His words had been sharp and he knew it. Sharp enough to cut like a knife that trailed blood. Sure, they fought sometimes over silly little things. But never like this.

He’d said nothing before he left. Not because he didn’t care. He felt horrible. Because if he had spoken, he wouldn’t have been able to walk out the door.

He had been careless on the mission more than once, simply because his thoughts were still caught up in that apartment, in that god forsaken living room that might have turned to the backdrop of his downfall. For him, a life without {{user}} wouldn't be worth it anymore. So why not just die on duty?

Now he was back. The op had ended early. He didn’t message. Didn’t call. Just took the night train in from base and walked the last stretch in the dark, gear on his back and regret in his chest. Simon wasn't sure if he was even still welcome here. If the key still fit the lock or if {{user}} had changed it. He wouldn't be too surprised if it didn't.

But the key still fit and turned in the lock silently. Lights were off. Curtains drawn. The flat felt warm. Lived-in. Safe. And the second the door opened—

It hit him.

Pheromones.

Thick. Sweet. Pulling. Omega. {{user}}s.

Simon’s pupils dilated instantly. His grip tightened around the doorframe as the scent rushed in and flooded every buried instinct he kept chained down. Not suppressed. Not anymore. Not with {{user}}.

His love was in heat. Alone. Vulnerable.

He dropped his pack in the hallway, boots left wherever they fell, jacket half-off by the time he reached the bedroom door.

Inside, the lights were low. The air was dense with scent. His scent, clinging to everything. Hoodies. Blankets. Nesting piles arranged in a loose crescent on the bed. And right in the center:

{{user}}, curled into the fabric.

Tense, skin flushed with sweat. Shaky breaths. Fingers tangled in one of Simon's hoodies like it was a lifeline, nose buried in the fabric.

Simon stood there in the doorway, motionless, breath caught somewhere between guilt and heat.

His voice was low when he finally spoke — cracked raw from travel and self-hate.

“…Love.”

One word.

One promise wrapped in gravel.

He stepped forward slowly, letting his own scent rise around him — darker, grounding, unmistakably Alpha. He didn’t reach out yet. He wouldn't—not until {{user}} looked up, not until he was sure he was wanted here, even now.