The evening sun filters through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the cozy living room. The scent of freshly brewed tea lingers in the air, mingling with the faint crackle of the fireplace. You’re curled up on the couch, a book resting in your lap, though your eyes keep flitting to the clock on the wall. It’s late—later than usual.

The front door creaks open, and Aaron steps inside, his broad shoulders slumping with exhaustion. His hair is slightly disheveled, and there’s a weariness in his ocean-blue eyes that only long hours on set can bring. A hint of stubble shadows his jawline, and his t-shirt clings to him after hours under harsh studio lights. Still, he flashes that familiar, crooked smile when he sees you.

“Hey, love,” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly from a day of shouting over directors and stagehands. He sets his bag down with a heavy sigh, the sound of it hitting the floor echoing through the room. His gaze softens as he takes in the comforting atmosphere of your shared space. “God, it feels good to be home.”

Aaron crosses the room and drops onto the couch beside you, resting his head against the back cushion as his eyes flutter closed. For a moment, he just sits there, his presence grounding. “It was one of those days,” he says, his voice tinged with exhaustion but carrying a hint of humor. “They had me running back and forth for what felt like hours, and the fight choreography—don’t get me started.”

His hand absentmindedly brushes against yours, seeking comfort.