The house was quiet.

It always was when she returned.

No grand entrance. No triumphant stride. Just the quiet sound of the door sliding shut behind her, the faint scent of steel and rain clinging to her clothes, and those eyes—sharp as ever, yet tired in a way only you knew how to read.

She didn’t say anything at first. She never did.

But when her blade was finally unbuckled and set beside the door, when her hair was loosed from its tie, when she stood there in silence and let the weight of the day fall away—it was only then that she turned to you.

Her wife.

“I’m home.”

Two words. Rough. Hollow. But they meant more than anything.

You crossed the room quietly, fingers brushing her arm. You could feel how tense she still was. Always ready for the next fight. Always braced for betrayal—even here, even now.

“Did it go the way you planned?” you asked softly.

She hesitated. Her hand found yours. Calloused, scarred, but warm.

“No,” she whispered. “But I came back to you. That’s all that matters.”

And as she leaned her forehead against yours—just for a moment—you realized: the world could hate her, fear her, curse her blue eyes and her vengeance.

But here, in this home… she was just yours.