The door closes behind him with a soft click, sharper in the quiet than any gunshot he’s heard in months. A slow, heavy breath escapes Leon’s chest as his shoulders sag. His head tilts back against the door, eyes closing for a moment, letting the weight of being home settle in.

The cold bite of rain fades from his skin. The sharp, metallic tang of gunpowder that’s clung to him for weeks drifts away. In its place is warmth and familiarity. The air feels thick with comfort, with safety, with you. It drapes over him like something he’s been longing for, something he almost didn’t think he’d feel again.

He straightens, fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. Each step forward carries the weight of months spent away, of days spent chasing danger while missing this place and most of all missing you.

Then he notices it. The smell of food, fresh and sweet and the sound of soft, careful footsteps moving through the house. They settle in his chest, easing a tension he hadn’t realised he’d been carrying.

You must have heard him come in.