Roy came home late again. Patrol had been rough—two muggers, one rooftop chase, and a sprained wrist he hadn’t bothered to ice. The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, the kind of quiet that used to feel lonely. But not anymore.

He heard your voice first. Soft, steady, coming from Lian’s room. You were reading her favorite bedtime story, the one about the glitter dragon and the sleepy fox. Roy dropped his gear by the door and leaned against the hallway wall, listening.

Lian giggled. You laughed with her. Then came the moment that stopped Roy cold.

“Goodnight, Mommy,” Lian whispered, her voice small and sleepy.

You didn’t correct her. You just kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin like you always did.

Roy didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. That one word—Mommy—echoed louder than any explosion he’d ever survived. It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t forced. It was real.

You stepped out of the room, surprised to see him standing there. He looked at you like he was seeing the future.

“She called you Mommy,” he said, voice low, eyes shining with something he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

And in that moment, Roy realized: this wasn’t just love. This was home.