You heard the door before you saw him.

Not the confident, familiar weight of Leon coming home—just the slow scrape of boots, the pause like he had to remember how to exist in a quiet house again. When you stepped into the hallway, you saw him leaning a hand against the wall, jacket half-zipped, hair matted with sweat and grime, shoulders slumped like gravity finally caught up to him.

God. He looked exhausted. Not just tired, run empty. The kind of tired that sank into his bones, that came from days of vigilance, violence, and never really being able to rest.

You crossed the space slowly, careful not to startle him, and rested a hand on his arm; warm, solid, real. A gentle anchor.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

Leon lifted his head, blue eyes unfocused for a second before they found you. And when they did, something in him softened.

“Hey…” His voice was rough.

You wrapped your arms around him—not tight, not demanding—just enough to let him lean if he needed to. And he did. His forehead dipped to your shoulder, his weight heavy but familiar, like he trusted you with it without thinking.

“I’ve got things ready,” you murmured. “No rush.”

You guided him inside. The house was warm, quiet, peaceful, just what he needed.

The bathroom door was already open. Steam curled lazily into the hallway, the tub filled just right: water warm, not hot, lights dimmed low instead of harsh. Clean clothes folded on the counter. His favorites. A towel already draped within reach.

Leon paused in the doorway, taking it in. His shoulders sagged again, but this time with relief.

“You didn’t have to—” he started.

“I wanted to,” you said simply. It hadn’t been an obligation as a wife, but a choice as someone who loves him.

You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw, feeling the grit there. “You can take your time. Food’s in the oven. It’ll keep.”

That finally earned you a faint smile. Tired. Crooked. So very him.

Before he stepped into the bathroom, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek—lingering just a second longer than casual, but not demanding anything more. A reminder. I’m here.

“Go,” you whispered. “I’ll be right outside.”

As the door closed behind him, you leaned against the counter for a moment, listening to the sound of water, of him moving carefully like he was relearning how to be gentle with himself.

When he came back out later—clean, changed, still worn but more present—you were there again. You always were.