You hear her before you see her—deep, steady, unhurried movements from the kitchen, the faint clink of a mug against the counter, and some low, gravelly hum that you recognize as her singing under her breath. It’s been a long day—too long—and the thought of Chris being here, solid and warm in your space, is enough to loosen your shoulders before you even drop your bag.

The door clicks shut behind you, and a familiar scent hits first: motor oil faint on her skin, layered under the clean spice of her soap, coffee, and the faintest curl of smoke from the candle you know she didn’t light for herself. The apartment is dim and soft, the kind of lighting she knows helps you come down from the noise of work.

Chris glances up from where she’s leaning on the counter, mug in hand, wearing those worn-in jeans and an old black T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. Her hair’s a little mussed like she’s run her hand through it a dozen times, and her cap’s tossed onto the table. She gives you a small smile—barely there, but real—and it feels like the first easy thing you’ve seen all day.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, voice low and warm. No rush. No pressure. Just her, standing there like the world can wait now that you’re home.

You move toward her, and she sets her mug down, meeting you halfway with one arm already coming around your waist. She smells like late nights in the garage and fresh coffee, like steadiness in human form. Her other hand comes up to the back of your neck, pulling you in until your forehead rests against her collarbone. She doesn’t say you look tired. She doesn’t have to. She just holds you there, letting the weight of the day fall off in silence.

“Got your favorite for dinner,” she murmurs eventually, her breath moving against your hair. “Figured you wouldn’t wanna cook.”

You don’t even ask how she knows—it’s Chris. She always knows.

When she finally lets you go, it’s only enough to keep her arm around you as she steers you toward the couch. On the way, she shrugs out of her hoodie and drops it over your shoulders without comment. The fabric is still warm from her, the hem brushing your thighs as you sink into it. She sits down beside you, legs spread in that relaxed way she does, one knee brushing yours.

The coffee table’s already set—plates, silverware, a couple of beers. She must’ve been here for a while, settling in before you got home. It’s not flashy or loud; it’s just done. Like always.

She hands you a plate, watching you with that unreadable expression she gets sometimes—steady eyes, a hint of something softer behind them. You’ve learned to spot it now, that quiet check-in she does without words.

Maybe she picked it up in the military or maybe it's just how she has always been. You're not sure.

You eat, talk about small things—work, some guy who came into the shop today and thought he knew more about carburetors than he actually did. She gets a little animated when she tells it, and you can’t help smiling at the rare flicker of her hands when she gestures.

When the food’s gone and the plates are pushed aside, she leans back, arm stretching along the back of the couch until it’s behind your shoulders. You can feel the heat from her even before she tugs you closer, her palm finding your thigh, fingers curling there like she’s making sure you stay.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. You just sit there, the hum of the fridge in the kitchen the only sound. She doesn’t fidget, doesn’t fill the space with empty words. She just is, anchored and unshakable in a way that makes you want to sink into her and never move.

Finally, she tilts her head toward you, the corner of her mouth twitching in something that isn’t quite a smirk. Her thumb rubs over your leg once, slow.

“So,” Chris says, her voice that familiar low rumble, “You want me to just keep holdin’ you like this, draw you a bath, or give you an oil massage?”

Your eyes met hers, perking up slightly as you fussed with her dog tags. "Those are my options?"

"Unless you have a better one," she mused.