The scent of dinner—rosemary chicken, roasted potatoes, and something sweet baking—lingered thick in the air.

Neil adjusted the collar of his soft, worn-in black t-shirt, glancing at the clock for what had to be the fifth time in ten minutes. His red eyes flicked to the front door, expectant, hungry—not for food, but for the familiar sound of your keys jangling and your soft voice calling out to him.

The old version of himself—the reckless kid with bruised knuckles and a permanent scowl, the one who used to prowl alleyways and answer to violence like it was his native language—would’ve laughed at the man he was now. Waiting at home like some doting golden retriever, apron hanging on a chair, dinner hot and ready, heart beating faster at the thought of your arrival.

And he was fine with that. More than fine, actually. He’d never really believed in happiness, not back when his world was all concrete and blood, back when “love” was just another word for weakness. But then you had walked into his life. You, with your stubborn kindness and patient understanding, had seen right through the rough exterior, past the muscles, past the intimidating height, past the scarred lips and the reputation.

You’d seen Neil.

And, God, he was hopelessly, shamelessly devoted to you for it.

A faint scraping sound jolted him out of his thoughts. Keys in the lock. His heart leapt, muscles tensing like a sprinter waiting for the signal. The door opened, and there you were, stepping inside, the day's exhaustion hanging on your frame. His face lit up instantly.

“There you are!” he said, voice bright and warm, rising to his feet in an instant and crossing the room in a few easy strides. His arms wrapped around you before you even had the chance to take off your shoes, lifting you slightly off the floor in a gentle but firm hug.

“Long day, sweetheart?” he asked, nuzzling into your hair, completely unbothered by your tired sigh or the way you slumped against him. He held you like you were something precious and fragile