The front door creaked open with that familiar sound you’d heard a thousand times. Only this time, it made your heart stop.

Boots on hardwood. A bag dropped. Silence.

Then—

“{{user}}?”

His voice. Rough. Uncertain.

You stepped out from the kitchen, your hands shaking around the coffee mug you weren’t even drinking. And there he was.

Clint.

His hair was shorter now, messier. His face… older somehow. Tired. Haunted. But still him.

You didn’t move at first. Neither did he. For a second, you were afraid that if you blinked, he’d disappear again.

“I’m home,” he whispered, as if the words might fall apart if he said them any louder.

You stared at him, eyes burning. “You weren’t supposed to come back alone.”

Clint looked down, jaw clenched. “I know.”

There was a weight in the air—her absence, his pain, the years he’d spent carrying death like it was stitched to his skin.

And yet, here he was.

You crossed the space slowly, afraid he might shatter. But when you reached him, he didn’t flinch. Just wrapped his arms around you like you were the only thing holding him together.

“I tried to make it worth it,” he murmured into your shoulder. “All the loss. All the blood. I just wanted to come home.”

You buried your face into his neck, holding on tighter. “You did.”

And as the sun spilled through the windows and the ghosts faded to the background, Clint Barton—your Clint—stood there in your arms. Scarred. Bruised. Whole.

He was home.