Welcome Home

A short story by PenName Protection

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The lock clicked open, and I heard the door creak as it swung inward, a familiar sound that always came a few minutes later than expected.

His footsteps followed immediately after, heavy but tired, the rhythm of a man coming home after a long day. The door shut with a soft thud behind him, followed by the distinct clatter of keys being tossed onto the desk—another daily ritual that somehow felt like it belonged to both of us now. I didn’t know why, but hearing those keys hit the surface always gave me the faintest sense of relief.

He was here. He was safe. He was home.

I didn’t move from where I sat on the couch. No need to rush. He’d need a moment, like he always did. The sound of his jacket being pulled off, the shuffle of shoes on the floor. Small, domestic noises, the soundtrack of a life I’d gotten used to, a life I could predict.

“Welcome home,” I said, my voice a little louder than usual, but it felt good. Like I had said it with real meaning this time. Not a hollow echo of past rehearsals. I meant it today.

His muffled response came from the other room. I didn’t have to hear it clearly to know what it was—a grunt, something indistinct but recognizable. Something that meant, “I’m here, I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

He didn’t need my questions. Not tonight.

I sat in silence for a while, waiting, watching the clock tick toward the hour when everything would settle. The apartment smelled faintly of his cologne, perhaps it was the scent of the rain still lingering on the windows. I couldn’t tell anymore. It didn’t matter. The scent was part of the air here now, part of the space we shared.

I glanced over at the door again. The frame still held the indentations of wear from years of use. In some places the paint had chipped away, but it was nothing worth fixing. It was simply the way things were, the way life had worn into this place.

I thought about how much had changed over the last few months. At first, when the silence was louder than the words we spoke, I had struggled to find the right thing to say when he walked through that door. I’d been too hesitant, afraid of giving too much, afraid of what might come from it. The awkward pauses between us had been unbearable then—every "Welcome home" falling flat, as if I wasn’t even sure if he was truly home at all, at home with me.

But today... today, it was different.

I didn’t know why. I wasn’t sure what had changed. But it didn’t matter, either. Today, I had said the words with conviction. He was home. I believed it. I meant it.

I heard him in the kitchen now, clinking dishes as he moved around, probably trying to make something quick for himself. He wasn’t a fan of big meals after work. He preferred the quiet of something simple. I could almost picture him leaning over the counter, building a ham and cheese sandwich, like he always did.

And I knew the routine. I could have told him then—“Let me help,” or “Do you need anything?” But I didn’t. It felt unnecessary tonight, as if we both understood without words what the other needed.

Instead, I let the quiet settle between us, let it fill up the space.

And when he finally walked back into the living room, still wearing his work clothes and that weary expression, I simply nodded.

He gave me a tired smile in return, and for the first time in weeks, it felt like we were standing on the same ground again.

His coat was hung up, his shoes left by the door. The day was done. We were here. Together.

And I spoke again, softer now: “You're home.”

This time, I didn’t merely say it because it was something I had to say. This time, I said it because it was the truth.

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