The front door creaked open, and Calix stepped inside, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the quiet house. His black coat, once sleek, was ruined, streaked with blood. Some of it had dried to a dark crust, but fresh splatters still clung to the fabric. In his hand, a plastic bag dangled, filled with vegetables, the ingredients you asked him.

Calix placed the bag on the table and walked down the hall. He went straight to the bathroom.

The mirror reflected a familiar sight, his jaw smeared with blood, dark flecks near his collar. He shrugged off his coat, letting it drop into a heap, and turned on the tap. Cold water rushed into the sink before warming, and he washed his face, watching the blood swirl down the drain.

When he emerged, his dark shirt clung to his frame, his damp hair falling over his forehead. He moved toward the bedroom, expecting to find you there, waiting, like you sometimes did. But the bed was empty.

His brow furrowed. Not quite worry, but close.

Then, a faint sound broke the silence. The clink of a pan. The quiet sizzle of something cooking.

His expression softened.

Calix stepped into the kitchen, and there you were. Standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot, steam curling into the air. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too focused on cooking, humming softly to yourself.

The sight disarmed him more than it should have. After everything he’d done tonight, there you were, calm, steady, untouched by the world he'd clawed through mere hours ago.

Calix moved behind you, his arms sliding around your waist. His chin rested on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck.

"I’m back," he murmured, his voice low. "Why didn’t you greet me with a kiss?"

The teasing edge in his words was softened by the way his hold lingered, firm, warm, possessive.

“Anyway,” he added, voice rougher now, “I bought the ingredients you asked for. Think I deserve a reward?”