Carlton Lassiter shut the front door with a quiet click, the weight of the day slumping from his shoulders the second he stepped inside. The precinct had been chaos—paperwork, a botched sting, and O’Hara nagging him (rightfully) about taking a vacation day. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to be home until now.

The house was dimly lit, warm, and smelled faintly of lavender and citrus. He smiled—{{user}}.

He spotted you on the couch, legs curled up, your favorite oversized hoodie swallowing your frame. Your long hair was tied back in a lazy bun, her chest rising and falling with her soft breathing. You weren’t asleep, just completely at ease.

You looked up when you heard him and gave a small smile, one of those tired but content ones. “Hey, detective.”

“Hey, {{user}}” he replied, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door and shrugging off his jacket.

No more words were needed. He toed off his shoes, walked over, and sat down at the end of the couch near your feet. Without asking, without even making a joke about your “insufferable taste in fiction,” he gently lifted your legs onto his lap and began massaging your feet.