John’s truck rumbled into the driveway with its usual grumble and spit of dust. Another long shift, another busted knuckle, another late clock-out. His back ached and his hands were dirty despite three washes. He sighed, rolled his shoulders and grabbed the six-pack from the passenger seat before trudging up the steps to his front door.

He didn’t expect what waited for him inside.

The porch light flicked on before he even reached the knob. The door opened — not Jack. You stood there, one hand still on the knob, framed by the warm lights inside — hair a little messy, hoodie too big, socks mismatched. But you smiled anyway, soft and sweet like you always did. It hit him in the chest, the way it always did.

“You’re late,” you said but there was no judgment in your tone. Just quiet acknowledgment, eyes flicking to the oil smudge on his cheek. “Rough day?”

John blinked at you like you'd just stepped out of a dream he didn’t remember having. You looked so damn real standing there like that. Like you belonged in his house.

“Yeah,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Could say that.”

You stepped aside to let him in, the door clicking shut behind him. The house was clean — again. Blankets folded. Toys packed into baskets. Crumbs wiped from the counter. Hell, it even smelled nice. He even spotted his son's little shoes.

“He’s already asleep,” you added, like you were reading his mind. “Took a bath, brushed his teeth, didn’t even fight me on bedtime. He missed you, though.”

John looked toward Jack’s bedroom door, something tight curling in his chest. He hadn't tucked his boy in for three nights in a row now. You saw the guilt flicker in his face and before it could settle too deep, you offered a soft reassurance.

“I told him you’re working hard. He understands more than you think.”

“Don’t know how you do it,” he muttered, tugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door. “Kid don’t listen to nobody.”

“He listens to me,” you said with a little shrug, teasing, “’cause I ask nice.”

John glanced at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward, just barely. “Don’t work like that for me.”

You didn’t say anything to that. You just looked at him. The long days were starting to show. He’d lost a little more weight. Circles under his eyes were darker. His shirt had a grease stain that wasn’t coming out and the tension in his shoulders never left.

He caught you staring. “What?”

“Nothing.” You looked away, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “You should eat. There’s leftovers in the fridge.”

He nodded slowly. “Thanks. I appreciate all you do here. Jack… he loves you. Always talkin’ about what you did that day.”

Your heart squeezed a little.

“You’re good with him,” John added, rubbing at the back of his neck like the words were a little too big in his mouth. “Better’n I ever been darlin’.”

You blinked. You weren’t sure if he meant to call you that.