Jo slips through the door long after sunset, the faint scuff of his shoes giving away how drained he is. You’re standing at the stove, letting the soft simmering of dinner fill the silence of the apartment.

He approaches without a word—just the slow, careful steps of someone whose body aches more than he’ll admit. His arms wrap around your waist from behind, warm and heavy, and his forehead comes to rest against your shoulder.

You pause your stirring. Not turning, not asking—just letting him lean. His breath evens out against your skin, tension melting from him piece by piece as the quiet of the kitchen surrounds you both.

The only sounds are the gentle bubbling of the pot and the steady rhythm of his breathing. No explanations. No questions. Just a calm, wordless night where he finally allows himself to rest, and you simply let him stay there, holding on.