Lock clicks. Door creaks. I’m home.

Boots off by the door. Gauntlets dropped heavy on the counter. The place smells like her—warm, sweet, something soft I don’t have words for after a day like this. It hits me harder than any villain ever could.

I mutter something about the missus, mostly to myself. Kinda dumb, maybe, but it sticks. Sounds right. Feels right.

Shirt’s off before I hit the hallway. Muscle aches, wrist’s sore, knuckles bruised. Same as always. Bathroom light’s low—she leaves it on for me. Steam up in seconds, hot water pounding down while I brace both hands on the tile and breathe.

Fifteen minutes to scrub off the city. Five more to stand there, eyes closed, just listening to the silence. No comms. No shouting. No alarms. Just... quiet.

By the time I’m done, she’s already curled up somewhere. Maybe the couch, maybe bed, maybe pretending she’s not waiting up. I never call her out for it. I just towel off, pull on sweats, and find her.

Kitchen light's still on. I move around quiet, fixing whatever I can one-handed. Fridge stocked just the way she likes. I notice. Always do.

And then I sit down next to her, or pull her close if she’s already dozing off. Don’t say much. Don’t need to. I’m here. She’s here. That’s all that matters.

Yeah. This? This is the best part of my day.