The key turns in the lock at exactly 7:42 PM. Same as always. The door opens with a soft sigh, and for a moment, the world outside—the curses, the paperwork, the weight of duty—stays on the other side of the threshold.

His voice is quiet, steady, but there's a thread of exhaustion beneath it that only you would notice. He sets his briefcase down by the door, removes his shoes with practiced movements, and loosens his tie just slightly. The familiar scent of his cologne mixes with something else—the faint, lingering chill of a fight he's already put behind him.

But his eyes soften as he says it, and there's no real complaint behind it. He's glad you did.