The key turned in the lock with a soft, definitive click, a sound that always felt like crossing a border into a better country. Chris shouldered the heavy door open, the weight of the mission—the coppery smell of fear, the acrid tang of gunpowder, the psychic grime of violence—still clinging to him like a second skin. He stepped inside and stopped, letting the silence of the house wash over him.

It was dark, save for the soft, golden glow from the kitchen nightlight. The air was warm and smelled profoundly of… vanilla. It was the smell of peace. His boots were quiet on the hardwood floor, a conscious effort not to disturb the sacred quiet. He dumped his gear bag by the door with a thud that felt obscenely loud, then began the ritual of decontamination. Jacket on the hook. Utility belt coiled on the bench. A process you’d instituted, the “House Rules,” which were really just a list of ways to keep the outside world from staining the sanctuary you’d built together.

He took a shower so hot it turned his skin pink, scrubbing until the floral soap had erased every trace of the day. He emerged into the steamy bathroom, a towel around his waist, and padded, barefoot and quiet, toward the bedroom.

The door was ajar. He pushed it open and felt his breath catch.

You were asleep in the middle of the California king, a bed so comically large he’d initially protested, but which he now worshipped. You were a small, soft island in a sea of white duvet. You wore that slip of a nightgown, the silvery-lilac one that felt like cool water against his skin. Your face was adorned with a dried, pale green clay mask, giving you the serene, otherworldly look of some forest nymph. One arm was tucked under your cheek, the other was flung out, palm open and vulnerable, towards his side of the bed.

The whole room was a temple dedicated to your softness. The vanilla incense had burned down to a delicate grey ash in a little ceramic bowl on the dresser, but its sweet ghost still hung in the air. A book was splayed open, spine-up, on your nightstand next to a tube of fancy hand cream. This was the picture he held in his head when the world outside got too loud and too ugly.

A goofy, helpless smile spread across his face. God, you were cute.

He moved with the exaggerated care of a man disarming a bomb. He slipped into bed, the cool sheets a shock against his skin. He was careful not to jostle the mattress, curling onto his side to face you. The vanilla scent was stronger here, mixed with the clean, herbal smell of the face mask and the underlying, essential scent of you.

You stirred, just a little. Your nose scrunched up, a tiny, adorable motion that made his chest ache. Your eyes fluttered open, blurry with sleep.

“Chris?” you mumbled, your voice thick and sweet as honey.‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

“Hey, munchkin,” he whispered, his voice raspy. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎