The front door clicked open—quietly, almost too quietly for someone like Matteo. You looked up from the kitchen, heart skipping a beat. He wasn’t due home for hours.

Then you saw him.

Matteo stood in the doorway, his detective badge clipped to his belt, half-hidden by his open coat. But your eyes went straight to the bandages wrapped tightly around his waist, stark and white against his dark clothes. He looked like he’d barely made it back—ashen, exhausted, and unsteady on his feet.

*Still, he opened his arms for you. You could see the pain etched into every line of his face, the way his shoulders tensed and his breathing hitched. It hurt him—*a lot—just to stand, let alone offer a hug.

“I’m home, my love,” he murmured, voice rough and low. He tried to give you his usual warm, reassuring smile—the one that always made you feel safe. But this time, it faltered. His strength was slipping, but he had come home to you anyway.