The apartment was dark when Hughie Biggs unlocked the front door.

Not silent— never silent. The washing machine hummed somewhere down the hall, rain tapped softly against the windows, and from the kitchen came the faint sound of someone singing badly under their breath.

{{user}}.

Hughie let his forehead fall against the door for a second before stepping inside. His body ached in that deep, bone-heavy way that only came after fourteen hours under fluorescent hospital lights. He still smelled faintly of antiseptic and coffee. His tie hung loose around his neck, his sleeves rolled unevenly to his elbows.

One of his patients had coded that afternoon.

Another had survived against impossible odds.

A third hadn’t.

Cardiology was cruel like that. Every day felt balanced between miracle and grief.

“Hugh?” You called from the kitchen. “That you?”

“No, just a burglar,” He answered tiredly.

“Then tell Hughie I made pasta.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it— small, exhausted, but real.

He found you standing barefoot by the stove in one of his old university hoodies, wooden spoon in hand, hair clipped messily up. You turned when he walked in, and the second your expression softened, something inside him loosened.

There you were.

Not the idea of home. The actual thing.

“You’re late,” You murmured gently.

“Yeah.”

“Tough shift?”

Hughie only nodded once.

You didn’t press. That was one thing you’d learned over the years: sometimes Hughie needed words, sometimes he just needed somewhere safe to fall apart.

Tonight looked like the second kind.

You crossed the kitchen quietly and reached for him. The second your arms wrapped around his waist, Hughie exhaled so shakily it almost sounded painful.

“Oh,” You whispered, rubbing a hand slowly up his back. “That bad, huh?”

His face buried into the crook of your neck. “I’m so tired, {{user}}.”

And maybe nobody else would’ve noticed the difference— how Hughie Biggs, loud and charming and impossible, only ever sounded that vulnerable with you.

“You ate today?”

“…coffee counts.”

“Hughie.”

“And half a granola bar.”

“Cardiologist of the year.”

He huffed a weak laugh against your shoulder.

Eventually you pulled back just enough to look at him properly.

His eyes were bloodshot. There were faint creases beneath them you didn’t remember seeing a year ago. He looked older than twenty-five tonight.

But when he looked at you, he still looked soft.

Still looked in love.

“You wanna talk about it?” You asked carefully.

Hughie stared at you for a moment before shaking his head. “Not tonight.”

For the first time all day, his heart stopped hurting.

Not because the world had gotten kinder.

But because he had finally come home to someone who knew how to carry the weight of it with him.