It’s late and it’s raining. He pulls into the driveway and turns off his lights, and then cuts the ignition. The car is oddly quiet despite the rain pounding on the roof and windows. Thunder rolls deep and loud in the distance while water cascades down the windshield in sheets; their house looks dark and far away.

He runs quickly with his briefcase over his head, but it’s futile. Soaked by the time he reaches the front door, he cannot wait to get inside and be dry, warm. There’s a small tricycle up by the front door, hastily pulled up under the safety of the porch - probably in preparation for the oncoming thunderstorm. A child’s helmet is haphazardly thrown next to the bike, and when he looks behind him at the yard he sees a few pieces of sidewalk chalk disintegrating in the water on the steps. There is a small light glowing beyond the front windows of the house and the familiarity of it feels like a warm blanket around him. He closes his eyes and sighs. He’s home.

He opens the door and shuts it quietly behind him. No one is awake; they’ve probably been asleep for hours. Dropping his briefcase on the floor, he shrugs out of his wet coat and hangs it on a hook in the foyer. He sits on the bottom step and takes his shoes off so he doesn’t track water through the house.

He moves through the house into the kitchen and it’s mostly tidy, but he smiles when he sees evidence of the night’s events. In the sink sits a pot that is full of soapy water, seemingly soaking to get rid of the spaghetti sauce clinging to the side. He sees two popsicle sticks on the top of the trash and now he knows what was for dessert. There are still some dinner dishes in the sink, probably left there so she could chase after their son, and forgotten once exhaustion had set in. He rolls up his sleeves and rinses the dishes and pot before putting them in the dishwasher and turning it on.

As he walks up the stairs he is mindful of the creak that they make, so he tries to tread lightly. He’s unbuttoning his shirt as he walks, stepping over a bath toy at the top of the steps.

He leans in the doorway of his son’s bedroom and just watches him for a minute. His little chest rises up and slowly falls back down, and it's still amazing that he can sleep so soundly and peacefully. He crosses the room quietly and kisses his cheek, running his fingers along the hair on his forehead, before pulling the blankets up around him. The little boy sighs, almost imperceptibly, before turning to his side.

He’s gotten to their bedroom and he sees that the television is still on. It’s turned down low, but still on. She’s done that for as long as he can remember. On nights when he is traveling for work or at a late meeting, she’ll often fall asleep with it on, and then she wakes in the middle of the night to turn the volume down. She swears she doesn’t do it, but he thinks that secretly she knows she does.

He stares at her while he finishes undressing. The blueish light of the television casts a soft glow over her body, and she’s lying on her side, one arm folded under the pillow. He takes all of her in – her hair falls in a curly mess on the pillow behind her, the strap of her nightgown has slid down off her shoulder, and her lips are turned up ever so slightly. He’s startled when thunder claps and the rain gets harder, and she stirs in her sleep but doesn’t wake up. She’s beautiful.

He shuts off the television and pulls back the blanket on his side of the bed. He knows he should let her sleep but he can’t resist the urge to get close to her. Moving behind her, he wraps his arms around her and buries his nose in her hair. She smells incredible. She always loved to shower before bed and for some reason it drives him wonderfully crazy. Every night she comes to bed smelling fresh and clean and it’s intoxicating. Her hand wraps around his and he knows she’s awake.

She presses back against him, and her voice is thick and heavy with sleep, “Mmmm….you’re home.”

He kisses her earlobe, her neck, her shoulder, “Mmm hmmm, I’m home. Sorry to wake you.”

His hand runs a path down her arm and his fingers linger with hers for a moment. He continues over her body, his palm lightly brushing her breast through the thin cotton, then sliding down her thigh and back up again. His right leg snakes in between hers, and as his hand ventures further up he realizes that she’s wearing nothing underneath her soft nightgown. Nothing.

He gasps his surprise in her ear, and he can just barely make out her smile in the dark. She turns in his arms and murmurs against his lips, “I’ve been waiting for you.”