The day had been long — too long — and Danny Reagan’s shoulders felt like they carried the weight of every siren, every witness statement, and every slammed door from the past twelve hours. The city never stopped, and neither did the job. But the moment he turned onto his block, the sound of traffic faded in his mind, replaced by the thought of you.

He parked the car, still in his rumpled shirt and tie, and before he even reached the front steps, the sound of laughter spilled out through the slightly open window. That was the thing about home — it wasn’t quiet. It was alive.

Danny stepped inside and was greeted instantly by Jack and Sean, charging toward him like a pair of linebackers. “Dad!” Jack grinned, slamming into him with a hug that Danny pretended knocked him back a full step. Sean followed, his arms wrapping around his dad’s waist. “Hey, you two,” Danny said, voice softening. “You been givin’ your papa any trouble while I was gone?” Both boys shot each other a guilty glance, which made you laugh from the kitchen.

You were leaning against the counter, arms crossed, wearing one of Danny’s old NYPD t-shirts and looking at him like he was the only person in the room. “They’ve been… creative,” you teased. Danny crossed the kitchen in a few strides, kissed you like he’d been waiting for it all day — which, truth be told, he had — and rested his forehead against yours. “Hi,” he murmured.