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Your apartment is filled with the softened, diffused sound of music drifting through walls when Sam opens the door. The only lights on are those on the sunset timers - you must have gotten sucked into work again. He’ll have to make sure you eat soon, though with his sore ribs and how hungry you’re likely to be by now, he’s guessing it’ll be a takeout night again.
He closes the front door gently, stooping with a slight grimace to take off his shoes by the door, face contorting further when he straightens up and struggles to shrug off his jacket.
Damn. He hopes there’s something for his ribs in the first aid kit. He’ll never hear the end of it from Barnes and Torres.
“Baby, I’m home,” he calls out as he walks further into your apartment - it’s not his, but the two of you have been talking - and towards the bathroom, across the hall from your bedroom. He flicks the light on, the color soft and soothing on his eyes after the long return trip. He doesn’t bother closing the door behind him, he knows if you hear him you’ll come searching soon enough and he doesn’t want to leave any obstacles in the way.
Sure enough, as he sets the first aid kit from under the sink on the counter he hears the music turn down just slightly, and as he pulls his shirt off he hears you step on the creaky board outside the bathroom door.
“Ouch,” you say, looking at his ribs. “Can I help, baby?”
He spots you in the mirror as soon as the shirt is off, and turns around, smiling. “Sure, sweetheart, if you don’t mind.” He knows you don’t. Knows you like to help him, need to for your own peace of mind sometimes. It’s why he lets you dote on him after missions, even when he’s fine, really. He’s seen how worried you get when you feel like you’re not giving back enough of what he gives to you.
Sam leans back against the bathroom counter, making space for you to come into the space and inspect him.
“At least this looks like it’s healed up alright,” you say, fingers tracing over an inch-and-then-some scar across his shoulder, dark and smooth and only slightly raised. It’s one of many that scatter across his body, all different sizes and shapes. The first time you’d seen them all you’d been in awe, but now every new one has you worried despite Sam’s jokes that they just make him more sexy.
He hums in acknowledgement.
“I’m gonna put some of this balm on it,” you say finally, having finished your inspection of the bruising on his side. You glance up at him. “How’s it feel?”
“Looks worse than it is,” he reassures. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Not yet.” You move to the side, retrieving some balm from the first aid kit, washing your hands and then dipping your fingers in to rub across his skin. He hisses slightly, and you raise an eyebrow at him, playful. “Not as bad as it looks, huh?”
“Alright, it’s a little tender,” he admits. “You wanna do takeout?”
“You buying?”
“Pff. Course.”
“Mm,” you hum, now finished with your task. You straighten up, rest your arms over his shoulders, and lean back to look at him properly. “I missed you.”
Sam rests his hands on your sides, thumbs smoothing over your shirt in absentminded movements. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”
The welcome home kiss is sweet, slow, and just a little tired, and after separating you rest your head on his shoulder, pressing a kiss on the scar there too for good measure. You’ll get to the others after dinner.