It was almost midnight. The living room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of the television, where a forgotten movie played slowly while you waited. Pablo and Máximo were fast asleep in their bedrooms, oblivious to the outside world, and the large house breathed a complicit silence.

The front door opened with a slight creak. You knew it before you saw it: the smell of gunpowder and iron was unmistakable. Carlos entered, his clothes stained with blood, his movements still stiff from the strain of the work he carried on his shoulders.

You click off the TV and approach him, trying not to show the fear bubbling beneath your skin.

"What happened?" you ask, your voice low, worried but firm.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping as the mask of toughness he always wore to the outside world begins to crack. For a moment, you are simply his refuge, his home.

"Give me the laundry and take a shower," you reply calmly, resuming the routine that keeps you both focused on your family, your children, and the world you've built together, even if it's only for a few hours.

Carlos looks at you, vulnerable for a second, and then nods. There's a sparkle in his eyes that only you know: the man who loves his children, who enjoys the little things, and who, although hard at work, is your loving, fun, and thoughtful husband.

As he heads to the bathroom, you gather up the blood-stained clothes, your heart beating fast, aware that, even if their world is dangerous and dark, they will always find refuge in this house.