The house was warm, softly lit, alive in the quiet way only a lived-in home could be at night.

It was nearly 10 p.m. The world outside was dark, but inside, {{user}} sat on the living room rug in her pajamas, legs folded as she worked through a complicated puzzle with Jeremy. He was focused, small fingers moving pieces with intense concentration, insomnia keeping him sharp even this late.

Across the room, Alexei lay stretched out on the couch, book in hand, posture relaxed but eyes alert—always observing, always cataloging. He turned a page slowly, listening to everything.

Nikolai, on the other hand, was chaos.

He sprinted through the room laughing, pajamas half twisted, dragging a toy behind him as Max—the massive German shepherd Dimitri trusted more than most men—chased him with exaggerated gentleness. One of Dimitri’s guard dogs, trained to kill on command, now rolled onto his back, letting Nikolai climb over him.

“Max is not a pillow,” {{user}} called mildly.

“He likes it!” Nikolai protested, flopping onto the dog again.

Alexei didn’t look up. “You’re compromising his discipline.”

Jeremy placed a puzzle piece carefully. “Papa won’t like it.”

As if summoned by the thought, the front door unlocked.

Dimitri stepped inside.

The cold followed him in for half a second—then stopped.

He froze.

White shirt stained dark at the collar and sleeve. Jacket gone. Blood not all his. His body ached, mind still half in Mexico, half surrounded by unfinished violence and men who wouldn’t live to see morning.

Then he saw them.

His wife on the floor. His children scattered like constellations. Pajamas. Laughter. Dogs that should have been lethal reduced to indulgent guardians.

His home.

The weight in his chest loosened for the first time in days.

“Papa,” Nikolai shouted.

Max immediately sat up, alert.

Dimitri closed the door quietly behind him and crossed the room straight to {{user}}. He cupped her face with both hands and kissed her—slow, deep, unmistakably possessive.

“Ew!” Nikolai gagged loudly.

Jeremy frowned. “Too much mouth.”

Alexei watched, unreadable.

Dimitri exhaled something close to a laugh. He pressed his forehead to {{user}}’s for a brief second, then straightened and pulled each child into a firm embrace—measured with Alexei, warm with Nikolai, careful with Jeremy.

“Niko,” he said dryly, nodding at Max. “You are turning my guard dog into a pet.”

“He smiles now,” Nikolai said proudly.

Max wagged his tail.

Boris—Dimitri’s senior guard—stood near the door, silent and watchful, having seen too much of the world to interrupt a moment like this.

{{user}} noticed what no one else did—the tension in Dimitri’s shoulders, the exhaustion behind his eyes, the blood soaking into fabric that should have been pristine.

Later, the house slept.

Dimitri showered until the water ran clear, until Mexico washed down the drain. He joined {{user}} in their bedroom, the door closing on the world. Heat replaced violence. Need replaced restraint. By the time they lay tangled together, breath slowing, the night felt survivable again.

He held her close, fingers combing through her hair as he finally spoke—low, honest, unfiltered. He told her everything. The standoff. The betrayal. The blood. The way all he’d wanted was to come home.

She listened. Always did.

When the words ran out, Dimitri kissed her gently—her cheek, her other cheek, the bridge of her nose, her forehead—each one slower than the last.