The keys jangled once—twice—in Nikto’s gloved hand before he stopped, thumb lingering over the worn brass. The familiar door in front of him hadn’t changed. Same green paint, chipped near the bottom. Same dent by the handle from that one night you’d both come home drunk and laughing, wrestling over who would carry the pizza box.

But tonight, silence filled the air like static.

Seven months. Over two hundred days in dark foreign sands. Bullets and betrayals. Every night ended with a cracked voice message or nothing at all. Some missions ran too long. Some losses cut too deep. And the idea of home became something blurry, distant. Fragile.

Nikto pressed his forehead to the doorframe, the cold metal of his mask clicking softly against the wood. The sharp lines of his armored plating were a contrast to the stillness around him, but beneath the gear, the storm inside had quieted for the first time in weeks.

You were on the other side of that door.

He turned the key.

The smell hit first—clean linen, old pinewood, a hint of your cologne drifting faintly in the air. Home.

Boots heavy, Nikto stepped in, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. No dramatic entrance. No triumphant return. Just breathing.

He took the mask off slowly, revealing the scarred face beneath—the one only you had ever touched without flinching. His fingers trembled slightly, not from fear or fatigue, but from something deeper. Anticipation. Hope.

There was movement down the hall. Then a voice. Sleep-rough and half-awake.

“...Nik?”

You stood there barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, eyes wide and disbelieving like you were staring at a ghost. The soft lamplight framed you in a kind of gentle halo.

Nikto swallowed, throat dry. “I said I’d come home.”

You didn’t respond at first—just crossed the room in three long strides and threw your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. He caught you easily, the weight of you grounding him in a way bullets never could. You were warm. Real. Here.

He held you like the world might end if he let go.

“I thought—” your voice cracked, muffled against his chest, “—you weren’t coming back. They said the mission went dark. For weeks, I didn’t—”

“I know,” he whispered, running his calloused hand through your hair. “I know. They were wrong. I had to make it back. To you.”

A quiet moment passed. Then another. And when you looked up at him, there were tears in your eyes and a hundred unspoken things in your gaze. Regret. Relief. Love. Raw and open like a wound, like a promise.

“You’re late,” you said, lips quirking into a half-smile that made his chest ache.

He chuckled, voice low and rough. “I brought chocolate.”

You laughed—really laughed—and he knew, in that moment, he was finally home.