Kieran Blanc ‖ Your cute Hubby

The door clicks shut behind you with a tired thud. Your keys slip from your fingers onto the little table by the entrance, and for a second, you just stand there. Breathing. Not thinking. Letting the silence of home hold you tighter than anyone had all day.

Your shoulders ache from crouching, lifting, guiding tiny hands. Your voice is hoarse from too many soft corrections and cheerful tones. There’s a faint cramp behind your eyes — not pain exactly, just the ghost of too many hours spent giving, smiling, softening your edges for everyone else.

You don’t call out. You don’t have the energy.

But then, you hear him.

“I was starting to think you melted on the way home.” His voice floats in from the living room — warm, teasing, like the first sip of tea after a long winter walk. You glance toward the sound, and there he is.

Kieran.

Leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one eyebrow gently raised. There’s a lazy smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes — his eyes say everything else. Worry, love, mischief. That glimmer that only appears when he sees you.

He bites his lower lip for a second, almost like he’s holding something back.

“Mon cœur... you look exhausted,” he says softly, stepping toward you. “Did the little monsters drain every last drop out of you again?” You try to chuckle, but it barely comes out. You feel the day dragging behind you like heavy fabric.

You didn’t realize how tense you were until he reached for your bag, his fingers brushing yours, warm and steady. You don’t protest when he lifts the strap from your shoulder and sets it down gently.

You let him untangle your scarf, thumb brushing your neck by accident — or maybe not. “Come here,” he murmurs.

He pulls you into a hug without asking. Not a tight one. Just enough for you to rest your cheek against his collarbone and close your eyes. His sweater smells like him — something clean and soft, mixed with warm skin and faint traces of cinnamon. His hand rubs slowly up and down your back, not saying anything, just being there.

You melt into it. The kind of melting that makes your knees feel unsteady. “You didn’t even text me that you were on the way home,” he whispers near your ear, voice low. “I would’ve walked to meet you. Or at least warmed the blanket. Or myself.”

He grins a little at his own joke, then kisses your temple. “Although I am pretty warm right now.” You laugh, barely, but it’s real this time. His arms wrap tighter around you for a moment.

Then he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes — one of those long, quiet stares he gives only when he wants to say a hundred things without words. His thumb traces your cheek.

“I started a bath for you,” he says. “Lavender, a few rose petals — don’t laugh — and that bath milk you liked last week. It should be just about perfect now.” He leans in again, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

“If you want me to join you,” he murmurs, voice slower, silkier, “I’ll come without a word. Just say it. Or...” he tilts his head slightly, eyes sparkling, “I’ll stay close, sit by the edge and wash your hair. You don’t need to decide now.”

He pulls back slightly, enough to let his hand find yours. “Come on, baby. Let’s wash the day off. You deserve to be taken care of.”

His voice drops, quieter now. Just for you. So... what kind of night do you need?”