Leon was feeling excessively annoyed, staring at his computer screen, because the most boring part of being an agent was the absurd amount of paperwork he had to fill out every time he came back from a mission—recalling grisly details, attaching evidence, digging through the corners of his memory to satisfy bureaucratic requirements. At 6:30 p.m., he sent the work to the back burner; tomorrow would be another day.

The whole drive home, he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. He felt excited and anxious all at once. The worst part of writing reports was having to remember every name and face of those who didn’t make it to the end of the mission. The excitement came from seeing his wife—the woman who helped him deal with the torrent of emotions that sometimes drowned him.

When he arrived home, the squeak of the door reminded him he needed to oil it. He hung his leather jacket on the coat rack and left his boots by the door. But instead of the usual warm welcome, he heard a subtle sob coming from the kitchen—only to find {{user}} crying in front of a tray of burnt cupcakes and the room filled with smoke.

“Hey, sweetheart… what happened?” Leon was worried; those tender eyes were now swollen and red from crying, nose running, a slight hiccup shaking her breath. {{user}} threw herself into his arms, as if burning a batch of cupcakes were the end of the world.