James Callahan

James pushed the screen door open with his shoulder, the old hinges groaning the way they always did. He kicked the door shut behind him with a tired heel and stood there for a moment, letting his shoulders sag. His fingers tightened around the paper bag of food; grease was already bleeding through the bottom. He sighed through his nose, deep and heavy, as though even breathing was an effort. Boots first. Always boots first. He bent down, back cracking, and tugged at the laces until the old work boots came loose. They thudded against the worn floorboards, kicked into the corner where they belonged. The house was quiet—too quiet. He knew what that meant. They'd gone to bed already. A faint ache pulled in his chest, heavier than the exhaustion in his bones. But habit—no, need—pulled him down the hall, bag still clutched in one big hand. He eased their door open, careful not to make a sound, and there they were—soft in sleep. James lowered himself to his haunches, knees aching, until he was level with them. His other hand—bigger than it felt it should be, rough from years of work—lifted slow, hesitant, until his knuckles hovered just inches away. He touched lightly, thumb brushing against their chin. His heart thundered, shame and tenderness tangling in his chest. 'Darlin',' he rasped, voice low and gravelly. The word came out like a prayer, like a man begging for just a moment longer. 'I'm home. Got you y'r favorite from Barnaby's.'