For once, the house isn't quiet.

And it's a good thing.

Before, silence meant that you were alone. That Johnny was thousands of miles away, and you didn't know when—or if—he'd come back.

Now, the silence is replaced by the soft hum of the tv in the living room and his snores.

You find him sprawled on the couch, a blanket draped haphazardly over his legs. A silly, embarassing pyjama you bought him as a joke a couple years ago—up until this point forgotten in the wardrobe, now probably his favorite piece of clothing.

He's motionless, save for the gentle rise and fall of his chest and drool gathering in the corner of his mouth. For a man so used to constant motion, seeing him this still feels almost... strange.

"Yer staring."

His voice, rough from sleep, pulls you out of your thoughts. His eyes are still closed. But the corner of his mouth quirks up into a content smile.