The return building always smelled the same—industrial carpet, too-bright lights, and coffee that had been sitting for hours. You stood near the doors with your keys turning slowly between your fingers, watching every small movement down the hallway that led to arrivals.

When Caleb Holloway finally came out, he looked different in that quiet way he always did after a long rotation. A little thinner in the face. A little slower in his steps. Like his body had already started trying to forget the rig, but his mind hadn’t caught up yet.

He spotted you and stopped for half a second—just long enough to let it land that he was actually back. Then his shoulders dropped, like something heavy finally got set down.

“You made it,” you said, softer than you meant to.

He gave a small nod, that familiar half-smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Yeah. I’m here.”

No dramatic reunion. Just the two of you closing the distance naturally, like you’d done it a hundred times before.

And then Caleb’s eyes flicked past you, toward the parking lot.

“The baby?” he asked.

You turned your head slightly toward the car. “In the back. Asleep.”

That changed his expression immediately—something quieter, more careful. He didn’t rush to the car. He just followed you.

The drive home was calm in a way that felt almost fragile.

Lenora was in the back seat, three months old and completely folded into herself, tiny hands tucked near her face. Every now and then she made a soft sound in her sleep that made the whole car feel even smaller, even more real.

Caleb kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Still breathing?” he murmured once, almost automatically.

“She’s fine,” you said, smiling a little.

He exhaled like he’d been holding something in since he left the rig.

At home, the house greeted him the same way it always did—warm, still, familiar. But this time there was something else layered over it: dinner already done.

You’d made it simple, but real. Steak resting on the counter, mashed potatoes still holding their heat, grilled asparagus laid neatly on a plate like you had cared enough to make it look intentional, not rushed.

Caleb stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment, not moving.

“You did all this?” he asked quietly.

You shrugged. “Of course I cooked. They don’t feed you jack shit on that rig.”

That got him—just enough to make him huff a short laugh under his breath as he set his bag down.

“Yeah,” Caleb Holloway said, shaking his head. “That’s… not wrong.”

He washed his hands before anything else, like he always did, then finally sat down. The first bite made him pause longer than he meant to.

Not because it was fancy.

Because it was home.

He leaned back slightly, looking at the plate like it had caught him off guard.

“…Man,” he said quietly. “I forgot what real food tastes like.”