Caleb returns.
Not with fanfare. Not with a dramatic arrival that reorients the room around him. He comes back the way he always does, quietly, efficiently, like someone stepping back into a life that never stopped moving in his absence. There’s a knock at the door that’s firm but unassuming, two measured taps instead of a prolonged rattle. When you open it, he’s there, travel-worn and familiar, jacket slung over one shoulder, eyes scanning you with that quick, thorough assessment he never quite turns off. It’s not suspicion. It’s habit. He checks posture, breath, the set of your shoulders, the space behind you. Only then does his focus settle.
The relief is immediate and physical.
It spreads through your chest first, loosening something that had been held tight without complaint. Your
