His boots thudded against the floor as he stepped inside, flight jacket slung over one shoulder, ring faintly humming as it powered down. The smell of home hit first—lavender, lemon, a hint of something baking—and it nearly knocked him flat. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he saw them standing in the kitchen.

There they were. Still not tired of him. Still here. Still his.

He didn’t announce himself. Just dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room like he’d been gone a year instead of three months.

Arms slid around their waist from behind, chin dropping to their shoulder. “I missed you more than oxygen.”

A pause. Then a grin crept across his face as he glanced down over their middle.

Nothing. Flat. Beautiful. Very much not pregnant.

He clicked his tongue. “Huh. I leave for three months, come back, and you don’t surprise me with another mini-me?” He gently rocked them in his arms. “You’re slipping, sweetheart.”

He tilted his head, feigning mock disappointment, lips brushing their temple. “No glow? No cravings? No threats about sending me to sleep on the couch if I ever make you throw up again?”

The smile in his voice cracked into something warmer. “I was almost looking forward to the part where you cuss me out for breathing too loud during trimester two.”

Fingers laced with theirs, and he guided them to the couch, sinking down and tugging them into his lap like he couldn’t stand even inches of space.

“You remember last time?” he murmured against their shoulder. “You called me ‘flyboy’ with venom in your voice and told me to go ‘rearrange my atoms somewhere far away.’ Then you cried because I brought you the wrong ice cream and made me hold your feet for three hours while we watched that nature documentary.”

He laughed softly. “God, I loved that night.”

His hand settled low on their abdomen, instinctive now. Protective. Tender.

“I’m not saying I’m disappointed—just surprised. You had a streak going.”

He leaned back, looking them over with a mischievous glint in his eye. “You know, I wouldn’t mind ruining your streak. If you're up for it.”

There was a playful wiggle of his brows, that cocky Hal Jordan charm barely contained beneath the grin.

“Bet we could fix this little problem in a weekend,” he said, brushing his nose against theirs. “Maybe even sooner, if I bring out the big guns. You remember what I did with that gravity shift last time, right? Ring’s fully charged, baby.”

He didn’t move for a minute. Just watched them. Every expression. Every breath.

“Joking aside… I’m home now. I’m not going anywhere for a while. I don’t care if we end up with a baby or a dog or just more burnt toast and bad Sunday cartoons.” He squeezed their hand. “I just like coming home to you.”

He leaned in, voice low. “But if a new Jordan happens to pop up nine months from now…”

The grin widened.

“…I wouldn’t complain.”

Another kiss. Soft this time. Grateful.

“Just… say the word. I’ll call in a very romantic mission. Code name: Operation Baby Fever.”