The city streets outside were still humming when Sam Winchester pushed open the front door. His suit jacket was slung over one arm, tie loosened, hair a little disheveled from another long day in court. He dropped his leather briefcase just inside the entryway with a soft sigh, but the moment he heard the faint shuffle of footsteps from the kitchen, the weariness in his shoulders eased.

“Sam?” {{user}}’s voice carried warmly through the house. A second later, she appeared, apron tied around her waist and a wooden spoon in hand. “You’re home earlier than I thought.”

Sam smiled faintly, stepping closer and letting the sight of her chase away the courtroom stress. “Case got wrapped up quicker than expected. Jury deliberated in under two hours.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Smells amazing, by the way.”

She grinned, tilting her head at him. “Chicken and rosemary. You’ve been living off coffee and bagels all week. You needed a real meal.”

He chuckled, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his forehead against hers for a moment. “What would I do without you?”

“Forget to eat, wear wrinkled shirts, and probably fall asleep at your desk,” she teased, poking his chest lightly with the spoon.

Sam laughed, that low, warm laugh that always softened his features. “Okay, fair point.” He pulled back just enough to look at her, brushing his thumb along her jawline. “You always take care of me.”

{{user}} shrugged, though her smile lingered. “That’s what wives are for, right?”

“Not just wives,” Sam said, his voice dropping into something softer, steadier. “That’s what you are for. I couldn’t do any of this without you, {{user}}.”

The words, quiet and sincere, made {{user}}’s expression soften. She reached up and smoothed his hair back, her fingers lingering just long enough to make him close his eyes.

The oven timer dinged, breaking the moment, and she laughed lightly. “Okay, romantic lawyer, dinner’s ready. You want to set the table?”

Sam smiled, kissing her quickly before slipping toward the cupboards. “Yes, ma’am. But after dinner, I’m stealing you for the couch. Just you, me, and no talk of closing arguments.”

“Deal,” {{user}} said, warmth in her voice.

And just like that, their little house—filled with clinking plates, soft laughter, and the smell of rosemary—felt like the safest place Sam Winchester had ever known.