Leon stepped through the front door of their quiet home just as the last of the daylight bled orange across the kitchen tiles. The mission had dragged—three weeks of jungles, safehouses that smelled like mildew, and nights spent listening for footsteps that never quite came—but the second his boots crossed the threshold, the weight of it all began to slough off like wet gear he could finally peel away.

He was home.

And {{user}} was here.

The soft clatter of a wooden spoon against a pot drew him forward before he’d even kicked his shoes off. There she stood at the stove, back to him, one hand braced on the counter’s edge while the other stirred something that already smelled like comfort—garlic, herbs, maybe the tomato sauce she liked to simmer low and slow when she wanted the house to feel lived-in. Her hair was up in a loose knot, a few strands clinging to the nape of her neck from the warmth of the kitchen. The gentle swell of her belly pressed against the edge of the counter, and even from the doorway Leon could see the way her shoulders carried that subtle, constant adjustment—the unconscious shift of balance that came with carrying their child.

His child. Theirs.

His throat tightened.

He crossed the room in four quiet strides, shrugging out of his jacket as he went and letting it fall over the back of a chair. Exhaustion still clung to his muscles, a dull ache behind his eyes, the phantom echo of gunfire and shouted coordinates—but none of it mattered. Not when she was standing there trying to cook him dinner after another long day of growing a whole person inside her body.

Leon came up behind her, slow, careful, the way he’d learned to move around her these last months. His hands found her hips first, thumbs brushing the soft cotton of her shirt, then slid forward until his palms cupped the underside of her stomach. He lifted gently—just enough to ease the pull on her lower back.

A soft, relieved sound slipped from her lips, almost a sigh, and something warm and bright cracked open in the center of Leon’s chest.

God, that sound.

He pressed his face into the crook of {{user}}'s neck, breathing her in—shampoo, faint sweat, the sweet undertone that was just her, just home. His lips found the skin behind her ear, then the curve where neck met shoulder, small, lingering kisses that said all the things his tired voice wasn’t ready to shape yet.

“I’m home,” he murmured against her hair, the words half-muffled, half-reverent.

He kept his hands where they were, cradling the gentle weight of her belly like it was the most precious, most fragile thing he’d ever been trusted to hold. And maybe it was. Every day he came back to this—to her, to the life they’d somehow managed to build between missions and nightmares—and every day it still felt like a miracle he didn’t entirely deserve.

{{user}}’d been carrying their baby for seven months now. Seven months of swollen ankles, restless nights, the constant low hum of discomfort she tried so hard not to complain about. Seven months of doctor’s appointments he’d missed more than he’d attended, of midnight cravings he couldn’t always be there to run out for, of quiet fears she never voiced but he could see in the way her hand sometimes drifted protectively over her stomach when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And still she stood here, stirring a pot, wanting to welcome him home like he hadn’t spent the last twenty-one days covered in dirt and adrenaline and other people’s blood.

His heart twisted—half guilt, half awe.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet this long,” he said quietly, lips brushing the shell of her ear. Another kiss, this one slower, more deliberate. “Let me take over.”

He felt the slight shake of her head before she could even answer, knew the stubborn set of her mouth without needing to see it. But he also felt the way her body leaned back into him, just a fraction, trusting him to keep holding her up.

“I’ve got it,” he insisted, softer this time. “You’ve been doing the heavy lifting for months. Let me do the cooking.”