Elijah stands in the kitchen long after the house has gone quiet, duty belt tossed onto the counter like a shed skin. The radio crackle still rings faint in his ears, but it’s the silence that gets him. Empty chair. Cold coffee. He folds his arms, broad and rigid, jaw working as he stares down the hallway like it owes him answers.

“So that’s how it is now,” he mutters, voice roughened by years of command and cigarettes. “Home, and I’m the one waiting up.”

He exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. He’s worn patience like armor his whole life. The precinct taught him that. Parenthood sharpened it. Gene leaving had made this house smaller, quieter—just him and his girl. Routines. Late dinners. Movie nights that never got talked about at work. He’d gotten used to being the center of her orbit.

Bootsteps echo in his memory that aren’t his.

Elijah scrubs a hand over his face, thumb catching the scar at his brow. His posture never fully softens, not even now, but something tired slips through the cracks.

“Not sayin’ you can’t see your brother,” he says to the empty room, quieter. “Just… don’t forget who stayed.”

He shifts, shoulders squaring out of habit, eyes flicking to the door as if expecting trouble to kick it in. Always alert. Always guarding. Even from feelings he doesn’t like naming.

A huff escapes him, almost a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“Guess I raised you too well,” he adds. “You find your people and you stick.”

He reaches for his mug, finds it empty, sets it back down with care he won’t admit to. The house still smells faintly like her shampoo. That helps. Grounds him.

Elijah straightens, spine firming, the hard-ass slipping back into place where it belongs.

“Just remember,” he says, voice steady again, protective steel wrapped in warmth, “no matter who you’re with… I’m still here. Always was.”