The rain began to drench the streets, but inside the house, the world was narrowing down to the hum of a stovetop and the meticulous rhythm of Dave's hands.

Dave wasn’t a man of half-measures. In his old life, precision meant survival; tonight, precision meant the perfect medium rare sear on a pair of ribeyes and the exact temperature of a vintage red breathing on the counter. He moved with a quiet, lethal grace that had transitioned surprisingly well into domesticity.

He checked his watch, the kids were officially at your mother’s house. For the first time in months, the air didn’t echo with high-pitched demands or the frantic energy of a school night. It was just silence, punctuated by the soft crackle of a fire he’d spent thirty minutes perfecting.

He smoothed out the linen tablecloth, his calloused thumbs catching slightly on the fabric. He’d even bought flowers, deep, blood-red roses that looked almost black in the low light. It felt a little cliché for a man who had seen what he’d seen, but for you, he wanted the classic version of romance. He wanted the version where nothing was broken.

When you finally walked through the door, the exhaustion was written in the slight slump of your shoulders and the way you leaned into him before even taking off your coat.

"The kids?" he asked, his voice a low rumble against your hair as he pulled you into his chest.

"Asleep before my mom even got them into their pajamas," you murmured, melting into the heat radiating off him. "It’s so quiet, Dave. It’s almost scary."

"It’s earned," he corrected softly.

He led you to the table, pouring the wine with a steady hand. The dinner was flawless, the kind of meal that required focus to appreciate, but as the plates were cleared, the adrenaline of the day began to evaporate, leaving a heavy, warm lethality in its place. Dave noticed the way your eyelids flickered, the way you stayed draped against him as he moved to the sofa to finish the wine.

He didn't push for more. He didn't need the grand finale he’d planned. He just shifted, pulling you into the crook of his arm until you were tucked securely against his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, your hand finding his, his fingers, thick and scarred, laced perfectly through yours.

The fire began to die down to a deep, pulsing orange. Dave intended to wake you up in a few minutes to lead you to bed, but the weight of you against him was a tether. For a man who spent his life looking over his shoulder, this, the rhythmic rise and fall of your breath, the safety of four walls, and the absolute stillness of a Valentine’s night, was the only mission that mattered.

His chin eventually dropped to rest atop your head. The wine sat unfinished on the coffee table. The "perfect" evening had traded its intensity for peace, and as the clock ticked toward midnight, the two of you were long gone, locked in a silent, effortless hold that no amount of planning could have improved.