The front door clicked open with a low creak, and you looked up from the sofa just in time to see Riley step inside. His shoulders were hunched, his hair slightly tousled from running his hands through it too many times, and his jaw was tight with exhaustion. He didn’t say anything at first—just kicked off his boots with a little more force than usual and dropped his bag by the door.

“Twelve hours,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Twelve bloody hours of chaos.”

You stood up slowly, watching him with quiet concern. He didn’t meet your eyes as he walked past, heading straight for the kitchen and yanking open the fridge. He stared into it for a moment, then shut it again with a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hey,” you said gently, stepping into the doorway. “Rough day?”

He let out a humorless laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind, resting your cheek against his back. For a moment, he was stiff—tense and wound tight like a coiled spring. But then he exhaled, long and slow, and leaned back into your embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.