The house had finally gone quiet, he lay stretched across the mattress, one arm behind his head and the other holding the worn book he’d been trying to finish for weeks.

When door creaked as you stepped inside, he didn’t bother looking up at first. He had felt your exhaustion from the moment your footsteps dragged down the hallway.

“You finally got ’em down?” he asked, his voice rough from the day. But you didn’t answer, just exhaled that long, defeated sigh he knew all too well.

That made him lift his eyes.

He marked his place with a thumb and lowered the book. “Alright,” he murmured, “What’d they do now?”

You crossed your arms, shoulders tight. He could practically see the storm still clinging to you. It made the corner of his mouth twitch, not in amusement, but in familiar understanding.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, voice steady but carrying that dry humor of his, “the chickens again.” Your silence told him everything.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Hell,” he murmured “I knew Elliot had that look in his eye this morning. Should’ve stopped him." He scratched lightly at his beard, thinking.

When you frown, he added, “They’re kids. Wild ones, yeah, but… still kids.” His eyes softened just a fraction. “You don’t gotta break yourself over every stunt they pull.”