The trip had been a marathon, and the flight home left Harry’s legs throbbing. It was the weather, the cold always made the phantom pains in his shins flare up, a bitter irony he lived with daily. He cranked the heat and crawled into bed. You were out cold. You never waited up, a fact he appreciated, you had your own life, your own grind.

He didn't wake you. No kiss, no "I’m home." He just lay there, eyes fixed on the ceiling, feeling that familiar ache of isolation. He liked you, hell, he might even love you and God knows you made the bad days more bearable. But the "click" wasn't there. That magical connection everyone bragged about felt like a myth.

He watched you sleep, wondering what you’d say if you knew the truth about the surgery. Would you see him as a fraud? Would the image he’d invested so much in shatter? He brushed a lock of hair from your face, then pulled his hand back as if burned.

When your eyes finally opened, you didn't pretend to be thrilled. You just looked at him, bleary eyed, and shifted until you were tucked against his side.

"You're back..."

"Yeah," he murmured against your hair. "Didn't mean to wake you."

He held you, listening to the silence of the room. He couldn't help but wonder if this was it, if this muted, comfortable thing was all love was, and if it was actually better than just being alone.