Home.

You step into the hallway, duffel bag heavy on your shoulder, boots still caked with dirt from the safehouse in Kyiv. Four months. It feels like four years.

Familiar sounds. Safe sounds.

You round the corner, a tired smile already forming on your lips—

And you stop.

Because there he is.

Seated at the end of the long dining table. Dark hair falling over his brow. Metal arm resting on the wood. Those blue, blue eyes—locked on you.

The wine glass in Steve’s hand freezes mid-air.

The room goes silent.