The house is dark when Joel steps inside, save for the soft flickering glow spilling from the living room.

His boots feel too heavy against the floor. He rubs a hand down his face, over his beard, fingers pressing hard against his mouth like he could wipe something away. Something that never even happened.

Almost.

A misstep too close to the edge. The kind that makes your stomach lurch, heart hammer, before you manage to steady yourself. Before it’s too late.

His flannel smells like sawdust, beer, and something else that doesn’t belong. A scent that clings in a way it shouldn’t. He shrugs it off, drapes it over a chair, eyes lingering on his own hands like they don’t belong to him.

His mind stutters back—

A bar. A laugh too easy, a touch too familiar. A woman leaning in, the scent of perfume too sweet, too strong. A hand ghosting over his wrist, lips just barely brushing his.

And Joel—Joel let it happen. Not all the way. Not enough to ruin everything. But enough to make him feel sick now.

His phone had buzzed in his pocket.

Your name and few words where are you?

And when he looked up, she was still there, waiting. Expecting.

But Joel had turned away. Left without a word.

Now he stands in the doorway of his own home, where he belongs, looking at you. At Sarah curled against you, safe and warm, her little newborn baby hand still gripping the sleeve of your sweater.

The movie is still playing, but you’re barely awake, head resting against the back of the couch. You must’ve waited for him. You always do. A plate sits on the table, untouched, his.

His throat works around the weight in his chest.

This—this is his. His family. His home.

And he almost—

He clenches his jaw, runs a rough hand down his face.

You shift slightly, stirring at the sound of him. Your lashes flutter, and then you see him, eyes soft, searching.

He exhales, his voice tight but low.

"Sorry I'm late... Tommy an' me had a few drinks after work."