The door opens quietly, the way it always does when he’s trying not to wake the apartment.

Leon steps inside like the night is still clinging to him. His jacket is slung over one shoulder, boots heavier than usual on the floorboards. There’s a stiffness to the way he moves. Not injured, just worn down to the bone after too many hours running on adrenaline.

The mission had kept him out longer than planned. The kind of operation that leaves a metallic smell in your nose and bruises you don’t notice until the next morning.

You’d stayed behind this time, working remotely—comms, intel, watching everything unfold through screens instead of gun sights.

Now he’s home.

He drops his bag near the door and runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly like the air in the apartment is the first safe breath he’s had all day. The tension in his shoulders eases when he sees you.

Your eyes move automatically over him, checking for damage the way partners in this line of work do.

Bruised knuckles, a split seam at the sleeve, no blood. Then you notice his hand—bare.

No wedding ring.

Your brow lifts slightly. Leon follows your gaze down to his hand. For a second he just stares at it too, like he forgot something important in the chaos.

A tired breath leaves him—half laugh, half sigh. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the ring, turning it once between his fingers. The metal catches the soft kitchen light. Careful habit. He slips it back onto his finger.

The motion is slow, deliberate. Less like fixing a mistake and more like setting something back where it belongs.

His eyes lift to yours after, a faint smile pulling at one side of his mouth despite the exhaustion. There’s reassurance in the look alone, quiet and steady.

You tease him with a glance anyway.

He just shakes his head, stepping closer, the familiar warmth of him replacing the cold that came in with the door.