Spring cleaning always turned into a joint operation the moment your husband decided it was due. He surveys the space in earnest, hands on his hips, then nods once like he’s reached a conclusion after careful recon.

“Alright, we’re lookin’ at a moderate clutter situation. Nothin’ we can’t handle. We clear this place room by room. No civilians harmed. Minimal emotional attachments. Let’s make this house a home, yep?”

Despite the mock-serious orders, this is the most relaxed you’ve seen him in a while. No armor. No comms crackling in his ear. Just your husband humming along to the music, clad in a soft t-shirt, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed. Sometimes, he comes up behind you without a word, resting his chin briefly against your shoulder while you work. It’s unspoken, grounding.

The house gradually comes together, but the real satisfaction is in the shared rhythm. For once, the world doesn’t demand anything from him. The mission is simple, and he’s exactly where he wants to be: home, with you.