You had sensed from her last note—short, apologetic, sent just past sunset—that tonight would be one of those nights.

“Delayed again. One arrest turned into five. I’m sorry, my love. Don’t wait up if you’re tired. I’ll find you.”

But of course you waited. Not out of duty—out of love. It had been a long week for her. And you knew that when Caitlyn came home late, it wasn’t just physical exhaustion that followed her through the door—it was the weight of everything. The decisions. The expectations. The streets she couldn’t save in time.

So you prepared a space of softness.

A warm towel waited by the front door. Her favorite nightshirt—yours, really, but she’d long ago claimed it—was folded on the bed. The lights were dimmed low, and the kettle was just beginning to whistle when you heard the door creak open.

Caitlyn stepped in, and her very posture told the story: her coat clung damply to her shoulders, boots heavy with grime, her usually sharp eyes dulled and tired. Her hair had come loose from its tie, and her fingers trembled slightly as she unfastened the top of her collar.

She looked up—and smiled faintly the moment she saw you. "Home," she whispered. The word was less a greeting, more a breath of relief.

Within minutes, Caitlyn was seated on the edge of the bed in her soft nightshirt, a blanket around her shoulders and her damp feet resting in a basin of warm water you’d prepared. You kneeled in front of her, gently massaging lavender oil into her calves.

She said nothing for a while—just watched you. The look in her eyes was distant at first, like her mind was still running through the streets of the Undercity. But slowly, with each brush of your hands, with every quiet word or warm touch, her breathing began to deepen.

“Talk to me,” she murmured. “Tell me about your day. I need to be here again. With you.”