Marcus had meant to come home before dark.

That was always the plan. Every day, he left with a promise muttered against your hair — “I’ll be back before the street lamps come on.” And every day, Piltover made a liar out of him. Reports. Patrols. Crime scenes. Council pressure. Patrol rotations. Another reminder that the Undercity was “restless lately,” and that the Enforcers needed to be vigilant.

But tonight, for the first time in weeks, his steps were quick. Determined. He kept one hand on the railing as he climbed the stairs, still wearing half his uniform, still smelling faintly of smoke and the metallic tang of the Fissures. His shoulders ached. His eyes burned.

Yet the moment he reached the door, all of that quieted.

Inside, the apartment was dim. Warm. Soft golden lamplight spilled across the living room, pooling around the couch where you sat—knees drawn up, a blanket over your legs, one hand resting over the curve of your stomach.

Marcus froze in the doorway for a heartbeat.

He always did.

He swallowed, Once. Twice.

It still stunned him, how gentle his life looked from the outside. How quiet. How undeserved and fragile and terrifying it felt.

You looked up, smiling when you finally noticed him. “You’re late again.”

“I know.” Marcus let out a breath as he leaned his back against the door, unhooking the clasp of his chest plate. “I’m sorry.”

He expected you to sigh, maybe scold him—only softly, the way you often did.