The door creaked open on tired hinges, the heavy weight of Simon's boots dragging over the threshold. He exhaled sharply, tugging off his jacket with rough hands, the day's grime and stress clinging to his skin like an unwanted second layer.

Inside the quiet house, the smell of something warm and familiar drifted from the kitchen — not food, but him. His husband. The only person who could make this cold world feel remotely tolerable.

Simon tossed his jacket over a chair and peeled off his gloves, boots thudding against the floor in lazy kicks. His body ached in the old ways, muscles stiff from the grind, but it wasn’t just exhaustion wearing him down. It was craving — that gnawing, low-burning need to be close. To be his again.

He found him in the living room, curled on the sofa with a book in hand, wearing one of Simon’s old T-shirts that hung loose and low, exposing a sliver of bare thigh. It wasn’t intentional, but fuck if it didn’t go straight to Simon’s already thundering heart. Wordlessly, Simon stalked across the room. His husband barely had time to set the book down before strong arms wrapped around him, lifting him slightly, rough palms sliding over the back of his thighs to settle him across Simon’s lap.

"Christ, missed you," Simon muttered against the crook of his husband's neck, voice hoarse, low, obscene with raw feeling. His mask was off — it always was at home — revealing scarred lips and stubble scratching tender skin as he pressed kiss after kiss along the man’s jaw.