Nero kicks the door shut with the heel of his boot, balancing a small bouquet of flowers against his side as his right sleeve sways, empty. He’d already taken the prosthetic off and tossed it in the back of the van, too sore to keep it on for the night. “Honey, I’m home,” he calls out, voice full of his usual showy bravado, even if it’s a little hoarse now. The scent of dinner curls through the air, something savoury and sweet that hits him as hard as the realization that he was finally home.

He shrugs off his jacket with his one arm, fumbling a little, then lets out a soft snort at himself. It was kind of stupid. He’s fought demons as big as buildings, but it’s walking into the house and hearing you humming in the kitchen that gets his heart feeling funny. Nero leans his shoulder against the wall, staring at your back for a second, like he’s trying to memorize this moment. It’s not the place, he thinks; it’s you. It’s always you.