The shower runs hot. Scalding. The way he likes it. Steam curls around the bathroom as he scrubs away the smell of smoke, dust, and antiseptic. His palms itch where the nitroglycerin sweat had dried. He lets the water hit his face, his shoulders, the hollow of his spine.

When he steps out, he dries off mechanically. Towel around his waist. He doesn't bother with a shirt.

The bedroom is dark except for the faint glow of city lights filtering through the curtains. The shape under the blankets is still. Soft breaths. A hand resting loosely near the edge of the mattress.

He stands there for a long moment. Just watching.

His knees press into the mattress. The springs barely protest. He slides in slow, careful, the way someone handles something fragile without meaning to. His arm finds its place around Y/n's waist. Forehead presses gently against the back of their shoulder.

The tension he's been carrying all day finally breaks. His chest expands on a exhale that feels deeper than any breath he'd taken since morning. The ringing in his ears is there, always there, but it's quieter somehow. Muffled by the warmth beside him.

He closes his eyes.

Sleep doesn't come.

It never comes easy these days. But at least here, in the dark, with Y/n's back against his chest and the quiet hum of the city beyond the window, he doesn't have to pretend.