He comes in from the night air, smelling faintly of kerosene and smoke, helmet tucked under his arm. His shoulders are slumped, his eyes tired; carrying that invisible weight he never says aloud. But when he sees you, the tension in his face shifts, softens, like he’s been holding his breath and only now lets it out.

“...You’re here,” he murmurs, voice rough, low, and tinged with disbelief that you stayed, that you always stay. He lingers in the doorway a second longer, as if just looking at you steadies him. Then, stepping closer, his hand almost hovers before resting on your arm, warm but careful, not wanting to take too much from you though he aches to.

“You don’t know what that means,” he says quietly, shaking his head like the words can’t even touch the depth of it. “Coming home to someone who… sees me.”

And there’s this small, fragile smile, the kind he’d never show anyone else; that slips through only for you.