It’s late again. The clock on the wall ticks past 10 PM. Outside, the night’s cold enough to frost the windows, and inside the warm glow of your small kitchen spills golden light onto the wooden floor.

You’re cooking—again. Something simple, hearty, comforting. The kind of meal that says welcome home, even if the one it’s meant for isn’t through the door yet.

The table is already set. Two plates, one still empty. A candle flickers in the center—not for romance, necessarily, but because it gives a kind of softness to the room you’ve started craving in his absence. You're used to waiting. You’ve gotten good at it.

The stove beeps, and you turn off the heat just as the front door creaks open.

Heavy boots. A familiar, slow shuffle. A sigh.

You don’t need to look. You already know it’s him.

Simon walks in with that same tired weight clinging to his frame, his mask half-pulled up, revealing just enough of his face for you to see the exhaustion in his eyes—and the way they light up when they land on you.

He takes a slow breath and mutters, voice low and rumbling, “Smells like heaven in here…”

You cross your arms with a soft smile. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time,” he answers, his voice thick with something warmer than fatigue.

He peels off his gloves and walks toward you, movements slow, reverent. You don’t rush to greet him. You’ve learned to give him time—to let him choose how much of himself he can give after the world’s taken its piece.

But tonight, he crosses the distance between you without hesitation, wraps his arms around you from behind, and buries his face in your shoulder. “I’m sorry I’m late again,” he mumbles. “Got caught up—long briefing, last-minute prep for another run tomorrow.”

“I figured,” you whisper, letting your hand slide over his forearm. “That’s why I made stew. Thought it might still be good cold.”

“Everything you make’s good,” he says softly, then pauses. “But you don’t have to wait up for me like this.”

You turn to face him, hand pressed to the side of his face, now bare. “I know. But I want to. It’s not just about the food, Simon… it’s about you coming home.”

And maybe it’s the warmth in your voice or the way your eyes meet his with such undemanding affection, but something in him breaks just a little. He leans forward, kisses your forehead softly, and lets his breath settle against your skin.

“Let me get cleaned up,” he says, his voice almost cracking, “then you and me, yeah? Dinner. A real one.”