The front door clicked shut behind you, and you immediately kicked off your shoes with a sigh that felt like it came from your soul. Hesh was already on the couch, legs sprawled, still in his jeans and a black Ghosts t-shirt, remote in hand but clearly waiting on you to start anything.

“Long day?” he called out, eyes flicking toward you with that soft smirk that said he already knew the answer.

“You have no idea,” you groaned, walking over and flopping dramatically across his chest like a wounded soldier. “I deserve a medal. Or pizza. Or a back rub. Or all three.”

Hesh laughed, shifting just enough to pull you closer. “You get one. I’m not made of miracles.”

“Oh, c’mon,” you teased, nuzzling into his neck. “You survived Spec Ops and years with Logan, that’s miracle status.”

He gave you a lazy grin, brushing his fingers along your side. “You’re not wrong. Honestly, you’re the only mission I volunteered for.”

You scoffed, poking his ribs. “That was so cheesy, I think I just got lactose intolerant.”

“And yet,” he murmured, turning his head slightly to kiss your temple, “you love it.”

You both sank into the quiet, the low hum of the TV in the background, some movie neither of you were really watching. His hand found yours, fingers intertwining like muscle memory.

After a few minutes, you tilted your head up. “So… are you gonna rub my back or just lay there like a glorified heating pad?”

“Hey,” Hesh grinned. “You don’t get fiancé-level treatment without a ring.”

You held up your hand, flashing the ring he proposed with just last month. “Bam. Checkmate.”

He groaned, but you were already rolling onto your stomach, tossing him a pillow. “Start rubbing, soldier.”

“Bossy,” he muttered, settling in. “God help me, I love you.”