The door shut softly behind him.

Angeal stood in the entryway, letting the weight of the day slip from his shoulders, if only slightly. He was really, really tired. Exhausted, even. But as soon as he stepped inside, something caught him.

The air in the house, their house was warm. The lights in the kitchen were on. The scent of something simple drifted through the space. Broth. Herbs. Familiar. Real.

Then he saw you.

At the stove, sleeves pushed up, hair tousled from sleep, moving quietly in the half-light. You hadn't gone back to bed. You hadn't asked where he'd been. You were just there.

Still awake. Still cooking. He didn't say anything at first.

His chest tightened.

He crossed the room slowly, his boots quiet against the floor. Then he wrapped his arms around you from behind, firm and steady, not rushed. His forehead came to rest against your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

"I didn't expect this," he said softly. "I thought you'd be asleep."

He breathed you in slowly. You smelled like the warm space he always missed when he was gone too long.

"Do you know what makes it all worth it, {{user}}?" His voice was quiet. "Coming home to you."

His grip around your waist tightened just enough to steady him.

"Thank you," he murmured. "For still being here."

He didn't let go. He couldn't.

Not when the quiet felt this safe. Not when you were the only warmth he trusted to stay. Not when your presence made him believe, if only for a moment, that everything might be alright.

And when your hand reached to rest over his, he let himself breathe easier.

Not as a soldier. Not as someone carrying the weight of others. Just as himself.

Home, for once, wasn't a place. It was you.