Henry shoved open his bedroom door with a grunt, shoulders slumped and muscles aching from the mission. His bag hit the floor beside his bed with a dull thud, the zipper half open, revealing a crumpled sleeve of his uniform.

He didn’t bother to undress. Just collapsed onto the mattress face-first, letting out a low groan as every muscle in his back protested the movement. His ribs ached from where he’d taken a hit earlier—nothing broken, but deep enough to bruise.

The room was dim, golden streetlight seeping in through the blinds and casting quiet lines across his blanket. The air smelled faintly like clean laundry and antiseptic from the bandage still clinging to his side.

Then—soft. Familiar. The creak of his door opening and clicking shut again.

He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t have to.

Footsteps padded across the floor, light and deliberate.

The mattress dipped behind him, barely shifting his weight, and a moment later, he felt fingers—gentle, featherlight—brushing the damp hair away from his forehead.

He exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his jaw.

He knew that touch.

He didn’t need to look.

His voice came out low and hoarse.

“Hey… you came.”