Shane heard the door before he saw it open — the familiar rhythm of footsteps outside, slower than the morning ones, heavier with the weight of a full day. He glanced up from the counter instinctively, shoulders relaxing without him meaning to.

The kettle was already close to boiling. He adjusted the flame, muscle memory guiding his hands as he reached for her favorite mug — the one with the faint chip on the rim. Coffee grounds, measured carefully. Not rushed, not sloppy. He liked getting this part right.

The farmhouse smelled warm: brewed coffee, toasted bread, a hint of butter melting in the pan. Simple food, but filling. The kind of meal that said you’re home now, even if he’d never say it out loud.

He listened as the door finally opened, boots scuffing against the floor. Shane didn’t turn right away. Instead, he focused on plating the food neatly, wiping his hands on a towel like it mattered. When he did look over his shoulder, his expression softened in that quiet way only she ever seemed to bring out of him.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady — not loud enough to break the calm he’d built around the moment. He gestured toward the table with a tilt of his head. “Coffee’s fresh. You eat yet?”

There was no big smile, no dramatic greeting. Just Shane, standing in their kitchen, offering warmth in the only way he knew how — through routine, care, and the unspoken relief that she was back where she belonged.