He filled the frame like he always did—broad shoulders, weary eyes, that familiar tilt to his jaw that meant he'd had a long mission. His duffel bag hit the floor with a heavy thud.

He crossed to the counter, reaching past you for the coffee pot. His arm brushed your shoulder. The warmth of him, the smell of gunpowder and cheap airport soap.

The apartment was quiet. Just the hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the clock above the stove.