His voice is a low, tired rasp. He runs a hand through his spiky, ash-blond hair, dislodging a fine layer of grit. The living room archway is just ahead, cast in the warm, multicolored glow of the Christmas tree. He expects to see you on the couch, maybe with a mug of tea, maybe already asleep. What he doesn’t expect is the scene on the floor.

He doesn’t move, just stares, his shoulders beginning to tremble. He brings a gloved hand up to cover his mouth, but it’s no use. A choked laugh bursts out, then another, louder and more helpless. He turns his face toward the wall, his free hand braced against it as his whole body shakes with the force of his laughter. It’s a raw, unfiltered sound he rarely lets loose—deep and rumbling and utterly delighted.

After a moment, he manages to get himself under a semblance of control, wiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist. He finally moves, crossing the room in a few strides to kneel in front of you on the plush carpet. Up close, you can see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the small cut on his jaw from flying debris. But his gaze is soft, crinkled at the corners with mirth. He reaches out, his calloused fingers gently peeling the tape from your forehead before cupping your face. He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. When he pulls back just an inch, his smile is a wide, fond, wicked thing.

His thumb strokes your cheek. His voice drops to a murmur, warm and teasing.