The lock clicks, soft and familiar — and for a second I just stand there in the doorway, coat still on, travel bag heavy on my shoulder, breathing in the smell of butter and sugar and something warm I can’t name.

The house looks… different. Not new — just cared for.

The tree’s already up, lights glowing low like you didn’t want to wake Sarah. Garland along the banister. You two did this without me. Chest tightens a little at that, not guilt exactly — more like relief tangled with it. Three days in Seattle, sawdust in my hair, motel coffee that tasted like regret, and now this. Home.

I listen out of habit. Floorboards upstairs quiet. Good. She’s asleep. You’re still moving though — apron dusted with flour, sleeves rolled up like you forgot the time again. Same way you always do when you’re focused. I should say something smart. Tease you about the mess. Ask why you didn’t wait. Instead I just set the bag down, lean against the doorframe, and let myself look for a second longer than I probably should.

“…You know,” my voice comes out low, rough from the road but softer than I mean it to be, “I could’ve sworn I told you not to do all this without me.”