It was almost eleven at night when Isaac finally made it home. His body, a mountain of muscle and exhaustion, dragged itself through the quiet living room. His team had been deployed to handle a hostage situation in a downtown store. The operation had lasted for hours, and he didn’t want to remember how it ended.

His brow, permanently furrowed from years of vigilance, twitched again as his restless mind refused to settle. But then he stopped. His sharp eyes dropped to the floor. The hardwood, freshly polished to a sheen, reflected the dim light of the room… and the dirty prints of his boots, still caked with dust and grime from the streets.

For a split second, Isaac considered retreating — maybe if he moved fast enough, he could get out before being caught. But it was already too late.

She appeared from the kitchen, spoon still in hand, eyes narrowing like a cat ready to strike. Her fingers tightened around the wooden handle, and she pointed it at him like it was a weapon. The scolding began before he could even open his mouth.

Isaac, SWAT sniper, a man trained to face gunfire and explosives without flinching, stood frozen in the living room. He had stared down criminals, negotiated with killers, and endured his captain’s furious shouting… yet nothing made his chest tighten like the sharp voice of his wife in their spotless home.

He sighed, shoulders slumping, and turned back toward the door. Without a word, he unlaced the boots, set them neatly outside, and returned barefoot — before she decided to throw him out along with them.

“Permission to enter now, ma’am?” he asked from the threshold, towering in silence, subdued in a way only she could command.