The smell of oil and fresh-cut wood hits you before Caleb even steps through the door. It’s a scent you’ve come to associate with him—your big, broad-shouldered husband with calloused hands that somehow feel gentle every time they pull you in. Hands that have sanded oak beams, rebuilt carburetors, and still cradle your face like you’re made of glass.

You hear the solid thud of his steel-toe boots on the wooden floor, each step steady and unmistakably his. A moment later, the clink of his tool belt lands on the kitchen counter with its usual weight. You don’t even look up from the museum proposal you’re skimming—he always comes in like this, a quiet storm of presence and warmth, like thunder that hums instead of roars.

“Tough day?” you call out, keeping your tone light, but there’s a softness there that only he ever hears. The kind saved for the man who knows how you take your coffee and builds you things just because you mentioned them once.

A low chuckle answers you—deep, familiar, and a little amused. He rounds the corner, leaning on the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag stained with grease and sawdust. The kind of honest labor that doesn’t make headlines but builds the bones of the world.

He’s still in his work shirt—gray flannel today, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the tribal tattoo that wraps around his bicep and a streak of dried dirt down his arm. The compass inked on his shoulder peeks from beneath his collar like it’s always pointing him home.

Sweat glints at his collarbone, his dark brown hair tousled from a long day beneath the sun. He gives you that crooked smirk—the one reserved just for you—and lets his eyes drift over the sight of you on the couch: glasses a little crooked, laptop open, pen tucked behind your ear like always.

“Not as tough as you, handling those priceless relics,” he teases, voice warm and teasing, laced with pride. His storm-gray eyes scan you—not the kind that measure lumber or angles, but the kind that sees right through the noise of the day. “C’mere, sweetheart. Let me look at you before you get lost in all that history again.”

You start to protest—you are in the middle of something—but he’s already moving. Three long strides and he’s there, pulling you gently to your feet with hands that know both hard labor and how to hold softness without breaking it.

He wraps you up like he’s done a hundred times before—arms built from early mornings and years of hauling more than he ever says out loud. He smells like sun-warmed cedar, engine grease, and something that just feels like home. And like always, you melt.

“Missed you,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low and steady, more of a feeling than a sound. “Now tell me—what’s for dinner, or are we ordering pizza? ‘Cause I’ve been working up an appetite thinking about you all day.”