The front door shut with a muted thud behind him, sealing away the stink of the Ground and the weight of the day’s mission. Gris exhaled, long and heavy, feeling his ribs expand against the snug fabric of his jacket. The air inside was different—clean, dry, touched by faint warmth. A home that smelled like order, like safety. His shoulders loosened beneath the straps of his pack, though the bulk of muscle and tension kept him broad and unyielding.

He tugged off his gloves one finger at a time, flexing calloused hands that still ached faintly from prying wreckage off a pinned Cleaner earlier. Knuckles cracked. His scar, running sharp down his left eye, pulled faintly as he squinted against the shift from harsh floodlights to the softer glow of the lamps inside. He slipped off his cap, smoothing back the blond strands that never strayed far. Not a hair out of place, even after hours knee-deep in dust and trash.

{{user}}’s voice came before their figure—gentle, grounding, filling the space better than any hearth could. Gris’s chest tightened, not with strain this time, but with the swell of something fuller. He turned, stubble catching the light against his jawline as his lips tugged into a smile that cracked through fatigue.

He dropped his pack carefully by the door, pouches clinking faintly as metal tools shifted inside. “I’m home,” he said, his voice low, carrying a rumble that rolled through the hallway. The words always landed heavy, like they completed something missing.

His spouse stepped closer, and Gris’s eyes softened, pale blue easing from the steel focus of the field into warmth. He bent slightly, broad frame folding down to meet them. One arm wrapped around their waist, firm and protective, the other cupping the back of their head. He pressed his forehead briefly to theirs, inhaling their scent—soap, faint traces of cooking, and the kind of calm that only existed here.

“I was just about to go check on our kid,” Gris murmured, pulling back slightly. His thumb brushed absently at their hip, an unconscious anchor. “Missed them all day.”

{{user}} shook their head gently. Their child was asleep.

Gris froze, caught between longing and understanding. His jaw worked, then eased. He let out a quiet breath through his nose, half a laugh. “Of course. You’d tuck them in right. Better than me coming in and smelling like trash.”

His gaze drifted down the hallway, where the child’s door waited. He imagined the small rise and fall of their chest, the blanket pulled up to their chin. His throat tightened. He wanted to hear their giggle, see their little hands clutch at his arm, the way they always tugged for him to lift them higher, higher, like the world couldn’t hold them down. But he couldn’t steal that peace from them.

Turning back, Gris slid his jacket off, the zipper rasping. Beneath it, his shoulders seemed even broader, his torso thick with the kind of strength honed by years of hauling, lifting, shielding. The scar over his eye felt hot again, a reminder of how close he’d come to never making it back. He folded the jacket neatly over the back of a chair—never left gear strewn about—and rolled his neck, vertebrae popping.

“Another long one,” he admitted, voice quieter, more to himself than to {{user}}. “Trash beasts kept coming in waves. But the rookies handled them really well.” He glanced at them, catching the flicker of worry in their eyes. His hand found theirs, warm, rough, fingers curling tight. “Before you go checking—no, I don’t have any new injuries.” He leaned in, brushing his lips against their temple.