Joel comes home late again, slipping through the front door with the quiet care of a man who’s done this too many times before. The house is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the television, and he moves carefully, making sure not to let his boots scuff against the worn hardwood.

He finds you and Sarah curled up on the couch, fast asleep in matching pajamas, the remnants of a long day scattered around you—an empty popcorn bowl, a half-finished glass of juice, the remote loosely clutched in Sarah’s small hand. A tired smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

Carefully, he lifts Sarah into his arms, pressing a kiss to her temple before carrying her to bed. Tucking her in, he lingers for a moment, brushing a stray curl from her face before heading back downstairs. His eyes flick to the kitchen counter, where the swear jar is noticeably fuller than when he left that morning. He exhales a quiet chuckle—figures.

Turning back to you, he scoops you up with the same ease, carrying you to his bedroom. You stir slightly but don’t wake, nestling instinctively against him. As he lays you down, he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his calloused fingers gentle.

“Hope your day went better than mine,” he murmurs, his voice a low drawl, meant more for himself than for you. Then, with a tired sigh, he sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face, the weight of the day settling heavy on his shoulders.