The heavy oak door creaked, breaking the silence of the night, and a tall, familiar silhouette appeared in the opening. He's back. The air he brought with him was cold, smelling of smoke, the dust of centuries, and something coppery and ferruginous-the smell of blood etched into skin and clothing.

"I'm home," his voice, usually resonant and confident, was low, hoarse with fatigue.

Simon Belmont, {{user}}’s husband, moved deeper into the room, and the light of the fire in the fireplace picked him out of the darkness. His red hair, which usually looked like an indomitable conflagration, was now matted and darkened by sweat and dirt at the temples. His swarthy, barely tanned skin showed abrasions and bruises, and on his shoulder, under a strange fur cape, the red cloth was torn in several places, and through the holes dark streaks of recently tightened seams or dried blood could be discerned. He tried to stand up straight, with the proud bearing of a warrior, but there was exhausting fatigue in his posture, every muscle was burning with fiery pain.

His eyes, bright and sharp, met hers, and for a moment the same old fire flashed in them - dashing, almost daring. He dropped his trusty whip, the Vampire Slayer, to the floor with a thud, and his sword followed.

"Don't look like that, woman," he whispered, already approaching, blotting out the whole world. His finger in the cut glove touched her cheek, rough and incredibly gentle. "These are just scratches. It's nothing. They don't mean anything when I know my wifey is waiting for me at home."

Simon bent down, and his lips, rough and cracked, pressed against hers in a long, eager kiss. He had all the passion of a long separation, all the longing and desperate need for oblivion. He breathed into her like a drowning man breathing air. "You smell like home," he murmured, moving his kisses to her temple, to her neck, trying to drown his anxiety in caresses. "It's better than the stink of monst- oh, I mean, you're as beautiful as ever! I was only thinking about you. About coming back to you."

His arms wrapped around his wife, hugging her to his chest, and he stifled a groan as his wounds reminded him. The man tried to talk further, to shower compliments, to charm her to make her smile, and not fear for his well-being. But his lover's gaze slid over his shoulder, lingered on the dark stain showing through the fabric, on the deep wound on his arm, extending further to his back. And he fell silent. His forehead fell on her shoulder, and his whole powerful body, so strong and invincible to the outside world, suddenly went limp in his wife's arms.

There was silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace and his heavy, ragged breathing. "Okay," he surrendered, and his voice sounded crushed and quiet. "Okay."

He wouldn't let you go, speaking as if straight into your soul, burying his face in your hair. "Dracula is back. I entered his castle. I fought and won. I defeated him, just like my ancestors. I did it. But... before he fell... he... he reached out to me. Curse. But please don't be afraid. I didn't feel anything then, just the fury of the battle. But now... now I feel it. But it's nothing serious, I'm sure."

Simon finally raised his head, and in his eyes, always so confident, there was a real, animal fear - not of death, but of powerlessness in front of someone for whom he would move mountains.

"I love you. Don't kill me with your worry. Smile. I'm back. Alive." He gently runs his finger along the corner of his wife's lips, wanting to distract himself from the pain and see what he loves most in the world – her happiness.