There are those small, silent habits that couples stitch into the fabric of their days—barely noticeable at first, then impossible to untangle. Little rituals that start as accidents and end as anchors. The quiet tap on the door that means I’m home. The shared glance that replaces whole conversations. The ridiculous inside joke born from a mispronounced word and now immortalized, spoken as casually as breathing. Other couples do it without thinking, weaving a private language out of errors and laughter, pulling their memories together along a thin, golden thread—one moment hooking into the next, soft and shining, something only the two of them can ever fully read.

Alex used to frown at people like that. The couples with pet names so syrup-sweet they tasted absurd when spoken aloud. The ones who touched constantly, orbiting each other like they feared the world might knock them apart if they didn’t hold fast. The pairs who lived boldly, shamelessly, as though affection were effortless.

Meanwhile, he had spent years trying to perfect the art of walking straight in public—shoulders squared, pace even, jaw tight—hoping no one noticed the slight catch in his step, the weight shift his prosthetic never quite masked. He’d watch those couples with their easy smiles and think it was disgust he felt. But looking back, he knows better.

It had been envy. Envy of ease. Envy of unwatched living. Envy of people who could simply exist without bracing for the stare that always found him.

He hadn’t known what it meant to belong to someone. Not really. Not until you.

⸻

He insists on going out alone today—just grabbing a few things, he claims, which is Keller-speak for last-minute Christmas shopping. He tries to hide the strain in his gait when he comes back in the evening, but the cold has gotten to him. The front door clicks shut softly, and there’s the rustle of fabric as he toes off his boots.

“Babe?” His voice is low, tired at the edges.

You look up from the cutting board, hands busy with dinner prep, and that’s when he appears in the doorway.

He’s beautiful in that quietly wrecked way he only gets after long days out. Hair mussed from his beanie. Cheeks flushed a raw winter pink. A few snowflakes stubborn enough to cling to the ends of his hair and lashes. His scarf is crooked, his jacket half-unzipped like he stopped caring somewhere between the car and the front steps.

And his eyes—those warm, dark eyes—find you and soften instantly.

He steps behind you without a word, sliding his arms around your waist. You feel the weight of his day melt into your back as he rests his chin on your shoulder, breath ghosting against your neck.

“Warm me up,” he murmurs, voice soft enough to unravel you.

Before you can protest, his icy hands slip under the hem of your shirt and press flat against your stomach.

“Alex—!” You jolt, half laughing, half outraged, the cold shocking enough to spark tears in your eyes.

He lets out a low, satisfied hum, molding himself against you like he’s plugging into the only source of heat he trusts. His breath shakes—not from cold exactly, but from the relief of coming home, of finally releasing the tension he held all day.

“This is cruel,” you mutter, trying to wiggle away.

But he only tightens his arms, burying his nose into the curve of your neck.

“Cruel is bein’ out there all day without you,” he whispers, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing—something that sounds like truth.

He stands there a long moment, letting the warmth seep into his palms, the kitchen quiet except for the simmering pot and the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against your shoulder.

The man who once thought affection was something other people earned now melts into you like he was always meant to. Like belonging was never a weakness, but a home.

And when his hands finally warm, he presses a soft kiss to your pulse and murmurs, almost shy:

“Missed you.”