The door clicks softly as he enters, his boots muffled by the worn welcome mat. The scent of home hits him first—her lavender-scented candles mingling with the faint aroma of popcorn, likely hours old. The glow of the TV bathes the room in flickering blues and whites, casting soft shadows over the walls and the woman curled up on the couch.

He exhales, the weight of the day momentarily lifted at the sight. She’s cocooned in a quilt he vaguely remembers her pulling from the closet last winter. An open book rests precariously on her chest, her slow, steady breaths keeping it from tumbling to the floor. Their tabby cat is sprawled lazily across her legs, purring in deep rhythm, while the German Shepherd lies protectively beside her, ears twitching at the sound of his arrival but too content to move.

The air feels warm, heavy with quiet. He sets his bag down gently, careful not to disturb the serenity of the moment, though his heart clenches with guilt. He’s been away too much. Too many nights in the barracks. Too many mornings missed where he could’ve woken up beside her instead of his fellow officers.

Kneeling beside the couch, he brushes a strand of hair from her face. Her skin glows faintly in the dim light, soft and peaceful, and for a moment, he forgets the exhaustion tugging at his own body. The cat stirs, stretching lazily but doesn’t leave its perch. The dog thumps its tail softly against the floor, acknowledging him without a sound.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to her temple. She stirs just slightly but doesn’t wake. “I’ll try to come home earlier,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, a promise only the quiet night hears.