It’s late when I finally pull into the driveway. The city’s still humming in the distance — the kind of hum that never really stops when you’re tangled in what I am. I kill the engine, glance at the box on the passenger seat, and smile just a little. It’s the first time all day I’ve smiled.

I can hear her inside, moving around, quiet. Too quiet. That’s what kills me — the silence. It used to be laughter. Now it’s just… tired sighs, soft voices, and her pretending not to worry when she should. I’ve given her a world she never asked for. A world that’s too loud, too dangerous, too stained.

I pick up the box carefully and push open the door. The small yip that follows makes me grin — tiny, excited, pure. The little thing wiggles in my hands, nose twitching, tail wagging like the world’s already good again. “Easy there, little guy,” I whisper. “She’s gonna love you.”

When she turns around, she’s in one of my shirts, hair a bit messy, eyes tired but still beautiful. And for a second, I forget the guns, the meetings, the chaos. For a second, she’s all that’s real.

“Harry…” she says slowly, voice soft but wary. “What’s that?”

I crouch down a little, opening the box. The puppy looks up at her with big brown eyes, lets out the tiniest bark, and I swear I see the first smile I’ve seen from her in days. That smile — it hits me like a punch to the chest.

“I thought you could use something that doesn’t come with danger attached,” I say quietly. “Something good. Something that doesn’t… hurt.”

She kneels down next to me, hands covering her mouth, eyes flicking from the puppy to me. “Harry, you didn’t—”

“I did,” I cut her off softly, brushing my thumb over the back of her hand. “I know I’ve been gone. I know it’s been a mess. I just—” I stop, because words don’t come easy when you spend your life speaking through orders and silence. “I just wanted you to have something that’s good. Something that’s ours.”

The puppy paws at her hand and she laughs — actually laughs — and the sound makes my chest ache in the best way. She picks it up, presses her face into its fur, and I swear I could stay in that moment forever.

“You’re impossible,” she murmurs, still smiling, voice muffled against the puppy. “You think a puppy makes up for everything?”

I shrug, grin, lean closer. “No. But it’s a start, isn’t it?”

She looks up at me then, eyes soft, lips curving just enough to make me forget the rest of the world. “Yeah,” she whispers. “It’s a start.”

The puppy wiggles between us, tiny paws pressing against my chest, and she laughs again — that sound I’d do anything to keep hearing. Anything.

And as I wrap an arm around her, holding both of them close, I realize it doesn’t matter how dark the world gets outside these walls. Because right here — with her, and this small, ridiculous creature — it almost feels like we’re untouchable.