The apartment smelled faintly of fresh paint and pinewood from the new furniture they’d just built together last weekend. The living room was warm, the golden glow of a floor lamp casting soft light over the half-unpacked boxes stacked near the couch. Outside, the city buzzed faintly, muffled by the closed windows, and the sound of her humming traveled from the kitchen, blending with the rhythmic tapping of her bare feet on the hardwood floor.

He unlocked the door quietly, stepping in and closing it behind him with a sigh that felt as heavy as his boots. His uniform clung to him, dusted with the grit of the day—another long shift, a handful of emergencies, and too many moments that demanded more of him than he sometimes felt he had.

The weight of the day lingered on his shoulders, in the stiffness of his neck, but the sight before him began to chip away at it. She was crouched near the bookshelf, sorting through books with an almost meditative focus, her hair tied up loosely, strands falling free as she moved. A soft, oversized sweatshirt hung from her frame, a pair of socks barely visible as she shifted her knees against the floor.

He felt it then—the ache in his chest that wasn’t exhaustion but something deeper, something softer. She glanced up when he dropped his keys onto the counter, her smile small but radiant, and he swore it made the room warmer. His gaze moved to the mugs on the counter, to the carefully folded blanket draped over the back of the couch, to the photos of them she’d already arranged on the wall. Their life, bit by bit, was finding its place here, and so was he.

He exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, leaning against the doorframe as his lips quirked into a tired, grateful smile. His voice was low, almost a whisper as he said, “I think this is the first time today I’ve felt like I can finally breathe.”