The screen door creaks as Rafe steps inside, the sound barely louder than the sigh he lets out. It’s late—far too late—but there he is, dirt smeared on his jeans and paint streaking his forearm. He’s carrying the day with him, as he always does, in the slump of his shoulders and the calluses on his hands.

“You still up?” he mutters, more to himself as he glances over at you. He drops his tool bag next to the door and scrubs a hand over his face, leaving a faint smudge on his cheekbone. “I told you not to wait.”

You don’t answer, but he knows the look you’re giving him. The one that says you always wait.

Rafe walks toward the small kitchen table, his boots thudding against the old linoleum, and grabs the envelope sitting in the center. He flips it over, staring at it, jaw tight.

“Power bill,” he mutters, more annoyed than surprised. “Guess they’re not big on giving us grace this month.”

He sits down with a groan, rubbing his hands together, the grit of his workday still clinging to his palms. “I picked up some overtime. More framing work at the site. It’ll help.” He pauses, shoulders tensing. “Barely, but it’ll help.”

From down the hall, there’s a faint cry—a sound you’ve both gotten used to but still makes him freeze for half a second. Rafe pushes himself up and makes his way toward the nursery, his footsteps softer now.

When he reappears, the baby’s in his arms, tucked against his chest. Her tiny hand clings to his stained t-shirt, like she doesn’t mind the dirt that comes with her father.

“She just wanted someone to hold her,” Rafe murmurs, his voice different now—gentler, softer. He walks her back and forth, the way he always does when he’s trying to soothe her. “Looks like I’m good for something, huh?”

He doesn’t say it as a joke, though he tries to play it off like one. You watch him from across the room—this man who works twelve-hour days for not enough money, whose body aches but who still holds his daughter like she’s the most precious thing in the world. “I’ll do anything for you.”