The city is quieter tonight.

Outside, the rain taps soft against the windowpane, a rhythm that matches the faint hum of the record player. You’re curled on the couch under a throw blanket when you hear the door click open.

Boots. Then silence. Then the slow exhale of someone who’s finally home.

“Hey,” comes his voice that low, familiar rasp that makes your chest tighten every time. You look up just as he steps into the light, jacket damp, hair mussed, eyes tired but impossibly kind.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches you, taking in the sight like he’s memorizing every detail. Then, that small, weary smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“You kept the light on,” he murmurs, setting his shield down by the door. (He doesn’t carry it often anymore, but when he does, it always ends up there next to your shoes.)

He walks over and drops onto the couch beside you, the weight of the day falling off his shoulders as his arm slides around yours. The warmth of him seeps through instantly solid, grounding, home.

His head tilts, nose brushing your temple before he speaks again, softer this time.

“No matter how bad it gets out there…” His thumb strokes along your hand, tracing the veins like he’s memorizing your pulse. “…I’ll always come home to you.”

You can hear it in his voice the vow under the words. Not a hero’s promise, but a man’s.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I don’t know how you do it make everything feel normal again.”

You lean against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart through his shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing matching yours.

He presses a kiss to your hairline and whispers, almost to himself, “Guess even a soldier needs somewhere to land.”

The rain keeps falling, steady and soft.

So does he.