The house was quiet when he stepped inside, but the lights were on — a soft, familiar glow that settled something in his chest.

He was bone-tired. Not the kind of tired sleep could fix. He’d barely dropped his coat before he found you, standing in the doorway, eyes wide, lips parting in surprise. You didn’t even get a chance to speak before he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just held you.

The mission had been long, brutal in ways he didn’t want to talk about yet. Too many curses. Too much silence. And way, way too many nights without you.

So when you finally drew a bath — warm, quiet, gentle — he followed without asking, climbing in behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms slipped around your waist under the water, drawing you back against his chest. The scent of your shampoo mixed with the soft floral notes of the candles you lit. The steam curled around both of you, but it wasn’t the heat he was after. It was you.

“You’re really here,” he murmured into your shoulder, voice hoarse, like he still didn’t quite believe it.

His lips brushed your skin. Not greedy. Not rushed. Just steady, reverent, like he needed the feel of you to remember where he ended and you began.

“A month’s too long,” he whispered, letting his cheek rest against your temple. “It’s too long to go without this.”

His hands skimmed your sides, slow and deliberate, more about touch than want. Memorizing you all over again — the curve of your hips, the rhythm of your breathing, the way your fingers tangled with his under the surface of the water.

He pulled you closer, arms locking tighter around you like he was afraid you might disappear again.

“You feel like home,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have this to come back to.”

And he meant it. Every word. He didn’t need fireworks. Just this. Just you.