It was a rare thing to hear a mission cut short. Months of deployment done, and right before Halloween, too. Home. The word was still strange to Simon. “Home” was too soft, too warm, but that’s what he had now: a place just outside the city, quiet and tucked away. He preferred it that way. As he drove down the street, he spotted the goofy, mismatched Halloween decorations his neighbors had put up. Plastic skeletons and ghost cutouts stared back at him through the shadows, a strange little welcome.

The house was dark; Usually, you were up for him, waiting at the door or meeting him at the airport, but tonight, he slipped in with his spare key, quiet as a shadow. He closed the door behind him, shoulders weary, the idea of a hot bath calling to him as he set down his bag and kicked off his boots.

The hall smelled faintly like brownies, and when he wandered into the kitchen, he spotted evidence of your late-night baking spree: empty wrappers in the trash, a half-eaten pan of brownies, and a cake in the fridge. “Brownies and cake, eh?” he murmured, taking a bite and letting a rare smile tug at his mouth. Just like you to fill the kitchen with sweets when you didn't expect him home.

He moved past the living room, noting the pile of blankets on the couch and the popcorn bowl abandoned on the table. You’d been watching one of those serial killer documentaries again—alone, as usual. He made his way upstairs, the house settled around him, dark and familiar, finally opening the door to the bedroom.

There you were, curled up under the blankets, a gun resting beside you on the nightstand just like he’d told you to keep it. He let out a soft sigh, amused at the sight. Clothes were draped over the chair—probably from a night out with friends, something to keep busy while he was away.

“Didn’t think I’d make it this soon,” he whispered, voice barely a murmur.