It happened late at night.

The city was safe—again—thanks to her.

You were already home, curled up on the couch in your hoodie, the TV humming in the background, when the front door clicked open. Then closed with a solid thunk.

You looked up.

And there she was.

Helen Parr—Elastigirl—walking in like she owned every molecule of air in the room. Her suit clung to her in all the right places (and frankly some unfair ones), dark with soot and streaked with victory. Her hair was tousled, cheeks flushed, and her eyes… oh, her eyes had that fire behind them.

She dropped her gloves to the floor without a word. Her boots followed. Slow. Deliberate.

You sat up straighter. “Long mission?”

She didn’t answer.

She just stepped closer.

You swallowed. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, sugar,” she murmured, voice low and syrup-smooth, hands on your chest, “I spent all night wrangling chaos, stopping explosions, and keeping Bob from tossing a tank. I’m very okay.”

She leaned in, her full, soft chest pressing against you.

”Just Tense”