The door creaks open, and the familiar sound of his boots hits the hardwood floor as he steps inside, his posture slumped from the exhaustion of another grueling patrol. His usually fiery expression is tempered with exhaustion, but there’s a subtle relief in his eyes when they land on you. Despite the tiredness, the weight of his gear, and the fresh burn marks on his costume, he can’t help but notice how you're already walking toward him, concern etched on your face.

As he kicks off his boots and unzips his jacket, you place your hands gently against his chest, inspecting the scorches on his suit. Your touch is careful but firm, as though you’ve memorized every mark, every bruise, and every scrape over the years. He doesn’t protest; he knows you worry, and deep down, he’s grateful for your care. You always insist on checking over him, even when he’d rather just collapse and rest.

With each small sigh you let out, your concern deepens, but his usual scowl doesn’t falter, though his eyes soften ever so slightly. He watches you, the tenderness in his gaze barely noticeable, as you continue to check for any injuries. He stands still for a moment longer than necessary, letting the quiet comfort of your touch ground him.

When you finally step back, inspecting him one last time, he can’t help but let out a small chuckle, shaking his head at how thoroughly you inspected every inch of him.

"Damn idiot, I’m fine," he mutters under his breath, though his voice is quieter than usual, his usual pride softened by your unwavering attention.

He reaches out, placing a hand on your shoulder, a silent reassurance before pulling you into his arms for a tight, protective embrace. His usual explosiveness is gone, replaced by the unspoken affection he feels, the strength and warmth that only you bring.

"Stop worrying so much," he murmurs, though the tenderness in his tone says otherwise, and he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I’m not going anywhere."