It’s late—closer to dawn than midnight—when the front door finally groans open on its hinges. The hallway light spills across the worn floorboards, catching on the figure in the doorway like a spotlight on something that doesn’t quite belong to this quiet hour.

Jack stands there, boots caked with alley grime, the dark navy of his uniform smeared with the city’s chaos. There’s blood dried near his temple—not his—and a tiredness in his storm-gray eyes that’s older than the night itself. He’s breathing, but barely moving, frozen like a man caught between two worlds. His gaze finds his spouse's one and just… holds there, like he's trying to believe you're real.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. For one suspended beat, he just stares like a soldier trying to remember what peace looks like.

And then, something gives.

He moves—fast and wordless—crossing the room in long, unsteady strides, arms wrapping around you like gravity finally caught up with him. His head drops to his partner shoulder, his entire frame shaking against them. He smells like smoke, gunpowder, concrete, and the kind of fear that doesn’t fade when the danger’s over.

“I’m here,” he breathes, voice raw, barely more than a rasp. “I’m okay. I made it back.”

But his grip says otherwise. His grip says he wasn’t sure he would.

You He sinks into you like someone who forgot how to stand without being braced. Somewhere upstairs, the house sleeps—safe and untouched by the chaos that nearly stole him away again.

And then, soft footsteps.

Tiny ones.

A small voice breaks the silence—muffled by sleep, but laced with concern.

“Daddy?” Caspian, your oldest of 8, stands at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a tattered stuffed animal, eyes wide and blinking under messy hair. Behind him, two more shadows shuffle into the hallway—twin silhouettes in mismatched pajamas, Agatha and Hero followed by the Sybil small babbling.

Jack stiffens, just for a second—like he’s not ready to be seen like this. But the second he turns, something in him breaks in a different way.

Hero runs to him without hesitation, arms stretching as high as she can.

“I had a bad dream.”

Jack kneels, slowly, like his body’s remembering how to bend beneath the weight of everything he’s carrying. His arms open without a word, and the four years old barrels into his chest, burying his face in his shoulder. The others follow—silent, instinctual—and suddenly he's surrounded by small hands, familiar warmth, unconditional love.

He gathers them in like a man starved. One arm around the twins, the other cradling the youngest, forehead resting briefly against the eldest’s before pulling him in too. It’s a quiet kind of chaos. No sobbing. No fanfare. Just the steady rhythm of breathing, the soft weight of children, and the undeniable pulse of something whole.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of a tousled head. “I didn’t mean to be late.”

His voice cracks on the last word. He closes his eyes like he’s praying—not to anyone in particular, just to whatever force let him come home tonight.

And for a long moment, there’s no uniform, no badge, no blood. Just a father with his family in his arms, clinging to the one thing in this world he can’t afford to lose.