It wasn’t a palace. Not a mansion suspended in the sky. Not a grand casino of endless velvet halls and chandeliers that never dimmed.

But it was home.

A creaky wooden floor beneath his feet, worn down by years of laughter and pacing and rainy days. A chipped mug with a silly design on the kitchen counter. A bookshelf filled with mismatched volumes, spines cracked, pages dog-eared and softened by time. Curtains that danced in the wind. A crooked picture frame that had never been fixed because, somehow, its imperfection fit.

It was strange how something so simple could feel so heavy in his chest.

Sigma stood just inside the door, fingers still curled around the handle as though unsure whether he was meant to enter. The coat draped over his shoulders seemed too formal for the room, like a ghost of who he’d had to become. Outside, the world spun on—busy and loud and full of masks—but in here, it was quiet.

It was safe.

“This is it,” you said, watching him from the other side of the room with a small, tentative smile. “It’s not much, but... it’s where I come back to.”

He didn’t move at first. Just looked. At the photos on the shelf. The blanket crumpled on the couch. The houseplants by the window that leaned toward the light like they trusted it. The little traces of a life lived with no expectation of being observed.

“I always wondered,” Sigma said quietly, stepping in, as though afraid he’d wake something sacred. “What ‘home’ meant.”

You tilted your head. “And now?”

“I think...” His voice trailed off. He took another step. Then another. He stopped in front of the couch and brushed his hand over the worn cushion, as if testing its memory. “I think I was wrong.”

“About what?”

He looked up at you. “About it needing to be perfect. Or clean. Or impressive.” He smiled, just barely, the corners of his mouth twitching with something fragile. “It’s warm.”

Your heart pulled.

You walked over, slowly, and reached for his hand. He didn’t flinch—not this time. His fingers found yours and held on.

You tugged him gently toward the kitchen. Lit the kettle. Opened the window just enough to let the cool wind sneak in. The sky outside was dipped in rose-gold, clouds heavy with the last light of day.

Sigma sat down at the small dining table and watched as you moved around the space. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to.

When you placed the mug in front of him, he stared at it for a moment. Then lifted it carefully—both hands wrapped around it as though holding something precious.

Chamomile. His favorite.

He took a sip.

“I never thought I’d be invited into something like this,” he said, voice low, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell. “Something so... gentle.”

“It’s yours too,” you said softly. “If you want it.”

He looked at you then, eyes wide and shimmering beneath the cool wash of twilight. You could see it in them—the flicker of disbelief, of quiet hope, of that eternal ache he carried like a second skin.

He brushed your hair back from your face with fingers that trembled more from emotion than cold.

—

Later that night, you lit a candle, curled up on the couch, and pulled a second blanket over the two of you. Sigma had taken off his coat at last, and now, he sat beside you in a borrowed hoodie, feet tucked beneath him, looking around as if still in awe that the world hadn’t taken this away yet.

“This is what you come back to,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “And now, you can too.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just leaned in, gently resting his forehead against yours.

“Then I’ll come back to you.”

And that, perhaps, was what home truly meant.

Not walls. Not keys. Not a title or a deed.

Just this: someone to return to.