Home Is Wherever I’m With You

The key stuck for half a second in the lock.

That never happened.

Sam Ihle stood in the dim hallway of the Harbor Arms Apartments with one hand braced against the frame and the other still gripping the stubborn brass key. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed like a dying hornet, washing the corridor in pale yellow misery. Somewhere three doors down, somebody’s television blared an old game show theme. A baby cried. Pipes rattled in the walls.

Sam closed his eyes.

“Come on,” he muttered to the lock.

The key finally turned.

The apartment door swung inward with the tired groan of old hinges, and the familiar scent of paper, coffee grounds, laundry detergent, and radiator heat drifted out to greet him. Home.

If the word even meant anything tonight.

He stepped inside, shut the door with his heel, and leaned against it for a long moment without moving.

His tie hung half-undone around his collar. His white dress shirt was wrinkled beneath his charcoal vest. One suspender strap had slipped crooked under his jacket. His glasses sat slightly askew on his nose. Normally that alone would’ve bothered him enough to stop and fix it immediately.

Tonight he barely noticed.

The newsroom had been hell.

Not the dramatic kind people imagined when they thought of newspapers—the shouting editors slamming whiskey glasses and barking “Stop the presses!” like old black-and-white films. No. Modern newsroom hell was quieter. Meaner. Death by inches.

Ten hours of police scanners crackling bad news into the room.

Three missed leads.

One angry source.

A typo in a city council quote that Benjamin Diaz had caught three seconds before publication and circled in red ink like a murder scene.

And the worst part?

The apartment was silent.

Usually Sam liked the silence. After spending all day in the organized chaos of the Seabrook Viking News bullpen, silence felt earned. Sacred.

Tonight it felt enormous.

He tossed his keys into the ceramic bowl beside the door. They clattered loudly enough to make him wince.

The apartment looked exactly as he’d left it.

Books stacked in uneven towers on the end table. Newspapers folded on the coffee table. Shakespeare anthology open face-down beside the sofa bed. Record player in the corner with three albums leaning against it—Bing Crosby, Elvis Presley, and The Ink Spots.

The sofa bed itself sat unfolded in the middle of the living room because he’d forgotten to put it back that morning.

That was unlike him too.

Sam was the kind of man who folded blankets into neat squares. Who lined pencils parallel on his desk. Who alphabetized his records.

The kind of man who showered before bed no matter how late it was.

Rainstorm? Shower.

Deadline night? Shower.

Food poisoning? Shower.

Three in the morning after covering a fire downtown? Shower.

The routine mattered.

The routine kept the world from feeling sloppy around the edges.

Tonight, though, he looked at the unmade sofa bed and only felt tired.

Bone-deep tired.

He peeled off his jacket and draped it over the armchair without even bothering with the hanger in the closet. Another offense against his normal habits.

His stomach growled.

Right.

Food.

He wandered toward the kitchenette, loosening his tie further as he went. The apartment kitchen was barely large enough to deserve the name. Tiny checkered floor. Narrow counters. Old refrigerator humming like a cargo ship engine. A single overhead light that cast everything in buttery gold.

He opened the fridge.

Milk.

Butter.

Grape jelly.

Pickles.

Half a carton of eggs.

And there it was.

The sacred jar.

Peanut butter.

Sam sighed softly, the first almost-contented sound he’d made all evening.

“Elvis sandwich it is.”

He pulled the loaf of bread from the breadbox and set two slices on a plate. Then came the peanut butter, spread thick and generous. Banana slices next, cut uneven because his hands were tired. A drizzle of honey.

He hesitated.

“No bacon,” he informed the empty kitchen solemnly. “I’m not Rockefeller.”

He slapped the sandwich together anyway.

The Ovaltine came next.

That part was ritual.

He reached automatically for his favorite mug—the chipped cream-colored one with SEABROOK VIKING NEWS printed crookedly across the side. The mug had survived three apartments, two newsroom renovations, and one memorable incident involving Ryan Hall backing into a shelf while carrying archive boxes.

Sam poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the stove.

The quiet apartment hummed around him.

The radiator hissed.

Cars splashed through wet streets outside.

Somewhere in another apartment, someone laughed.

He stared at the warming milk while exhaustion pressed heavier and heavier against his shoulders.

People at work thought Sam Ihle was composed.

Dependable.

Mild-mannered.

The bespectacled crime reporter with the careful voice and notebook always tucked into his coat pocket.

Clark Kent with a press badge.

He heard the comparisons all the time.

Most people missed the truth entirely.

Sam wasn’t composed because life came easy to him.

He was composed because if he loosened his grip for even a second, everything inside him threatened to spill everywhere.

The milk nearly boiled over before he noticed.

“Ah—!”

He yanked the saucepan off the burner just in time, splashing hot milk onto the stove.

Perfect.

“Beautiful work, Ihle.”

He stirred in the Ovaltine powder anyway, watching the chocolate swirl into the milk like clouds in dark water.

His mother used to make Ovaltine for him when he couldn’t sleep.

That thought arrived suddenly enough to hurt.

He could almost remember the old kitchen from childhood. Warm lights. German hymns humming softly under his mother’s breath. Rain tapping the windows. His father reading at the table.

Home had once meant certainty.

Now it mostly meant an apartment with thin walls and unpaid electric bills sitting beneath a Shakespeare anthology.

He carried the mug and sandwich to the coffee table and sat heavily on the edge of the unfolded sofa bed.

The springs groaned.

He took a bite.

Peanut butter stuck to the roof of his mouth immediately.

“Fantastic.”

Still, it tasted good.

Comfort food rarely needed sophistication.

He sipped the Ovaltine.

Warm.

Sweet.

Safe.

The city outside kept moving while Sam sat motionless in the middle of his little apartment, tie loosened, sleeves rolled unevenly to his forearms.

He looked terrible.

Jodie Williams would absolutely roast him for it.

The thought made him snort softly into his mug.

Jodie.

Political reporter.

Sharp as shattered glass.

Pretty in that impossible Old Hollywood way that made every room feel underdressed when she walked into it.

Half the newsroom was terrified of her.

The other half was in love with her.

Sam belonged firmly to the second category.

Though he’d sooner staple his own hand to a desk than admit it aloud.

He could already hear her voice.

“You look like death warmed over, Ihle.”

“Thank you, Williams.”

“No, seriously. Did you fight a raccoon?”

“Only emotionally.”

That earned another tired laugh from him.

The laugh faded quickly.

The apartment felt emptier afterward.

Sam rubbed both hands over his face.

God, he was tired.

Not sleepy tired.

Soul tired.

The kind that settled behind your ribs after too many weeks of running on caffeine and obligation.

He stared at the notebook sitting on the coffee table.

Tonight’s notes still poked from between the pages.

Names.

Addresses.

Interview fragments.

A sixteen-year-old kid caught in crossfire downtown.

Sam had spent three hours interviewing grieving relatives while pretending not to notice the bloodstain still visible on the sidewalk outside the apartment building.

Crime reporting did strange things to a man.

You learned how fragile people really were.

How quickly ordinary afternoons became tragedies.

How many folks walked around carrying invisible grief.

Sometimes Sam thought reporters were less like storytellers and more like professional witnesses.

He hated how used to it he’d become.

He finished half the sandwich before realizing he was still wearing his shoes.

Again: unlike him.

Usually the shoes came off immediately at the door. Then jacket hung properly. Then shower. Then pajamas.

Routine.

Order.

Control.

Tonight the routine had shattered somewhere between the newsroom and the apartment.

He leaned back slowly against the sofa bed cushions, Ovaltine cradled carefully in both hands.

The radiator clanked loudly.

Rain streaked the windows.

The room glowed amber in the low light.

And suddenly, all at once, Sam felt the crushing relief of being alone.

No scanners.

No deadlines.

No ringing telephones.

Nobody needing quotes or revisions or confirmations.

Just quiet.

Just home.

His eyes drifted shut.

Only for a second.

He knew he should get up.

Shower first.

Always shower first.

That was the rule.

The problem was that the sofa bed was warm beneath him, and the Ovaltine sat pleasantly heavy in his stomach, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d stopped moving long enough to simply exist.

His glasses slid slightly down his nose.

He didn’t bother pushing them back up.

Outside, a siren wailed faintly somewhere downtown.

Sam listened to it fade.

The city never slept.

Neither did reporters.

At least, not properly.

He thought briefly about calling someone.

Not for help exactly.

Just to hear another voice.

Maybe Ryan Hall. Ryan would probably still be awake, watching some war documentary at one in the morning while eating canned chili straight from the pot.

Or Danny Van Hoosier. Danny would answer with, “Buddy, if this is about bailing you out again, I need details before I commit.”

Or—

Jodie.

His thumb brushed unconsciously against the rotary phone sitting beside the lamp.

Don’t be ridiculous.

What would he even say?

Hello, Jodie. Sorry to bother you at midnight. I’m emotionally exhausted and forgot how to be a person for several hours.

Very suave.

Very dignified.

He sighed and took another sip of Ovaltine instead.

The warmth spread through him slowly.

His eyelids drooped again.

The shower could wait five minutes.

Five minutes wasn’t a crime.

Sam shifted sideways, stretching his legs out carefully across the unfolded bed. One arm draped across his stomach. The other still loosely held the mug.

He stared at the ceiling.

There was a crack above the light fixture shaped vaguely like Florida.

He’d noticed it months ago.

Funny the things you memorized about a place when you lived alone.

The silence settled around him again, but gentler this time.

Not empty.

Just quiet.

His mother used to say home wasn’t the building itself.

It was the place where you could finally set down the armor.

Sam hadn’t understood that as a boy.

He thought home meant ownership. Furniture. Familiar walls.

Now he understood.

Home was the one place a person could collapse.

And tonight he was collapsing spectacularly.

His eyes closed again.

This time they stayed closed longer.

Not asleep.

Just hovering near it.

Thoughts drifted in fragments.

Benjamin yelling about deadlines.

Police lights flashing against wet pavement.

Jodie laughing in the newsroom break room.

His father teaching him how to tie a Windsor knot.

His mother humming hymns over warm milk.

The smell of newsprint.

The sound of rain.

The apartment creaked softly around him.

Then—

A knock at the door.

Sam’s eyes flew open.

For one disoriented second he had no idea where he was.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

He sat up too quickly, sloshing Ovaltine onto his vest.

“Oh, come on.”

A glance at the clock made him blink.

11:42 PM.

Who in heaven’s name—

He shoved himself upright and crossed the apartment, still in wrinkled work clothes and untied tie.

Another knock.

“I’m coming,” he called hoarsely.

He opened the door.

And there stood Jodie Williams.

She wore a camel-colored coat over a dark blouse, hair pinned up loosely in a way that looked accidentally elegant. Rain dotted her shoulders. One eyebrow lifted immediately when she saw him.

“Oh my word.”

Sam blinked.

“…Hello.”

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“No, genuinely.” She peered at him. “Did someone attack you with a rake?”

He looked down at himself.

Wrinkled shirt.

Crooked tie.

Ovaltine stain on the vest.

He still had peanut butter on one cuff.

Good Lord.

“What are you doing here?” he asked weakly.

Jodie held up a folder.

“You left your interview notes in the newsroom.”

Sam stared.

Then groaned softly and leaned his forehead against the doorframe.

“Of course I did.”

“That’s what scared me.” Her expression softened slightly. “You never forget your notes.”

He opened his mouth to answer.

Nothing came out.

Because she was right.

He never forgot his notes.

Jodie studied him carefully now, all teasing fading.

“You okay, Sam?”

There it was.

The dangerous question.

Not “How are you?”

Not “Rough day?”

Okay.

Such a small word for such a large thing.

Sam adjusted his glasses automatically.

“Just tired.”

“Mhm.”

“I am.”

“Ihle, you’re standing there like a Victorian orphan.”

That earned the tiniest reluctant smile from him.

Jodie noticed.

Of course she did.

“Have you eaten?”

“…Technically.”

“What does technically mean?”

He stepped aside wordlessly and gestured toward the coffee table.

Jodie leaned slightly to look inside the apartment.

She saw the half-eaten Elvis sandwich.

The Ovaltine mug.

The unfolded sofa bed.

And Sam still dressed entirely in his work clothes.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh, this is serious.”

“It’s been a day.”

“You didn’t even shower.”

Sam stared at her.

“How did you—”

“Because you always shower after work.” She looked genuinely alarmed now. “Sam, are you dying?”

“Not currently.”

She stepped inside before he could object, shutting the door behind her.

The apartment suddenly felt much smaller.

Jodie removed her coat and draped it neatly over the chair.

“You forgot to fold the bed up too.”

“Yes, thank you, I’ve noticed my personal failures.”

“I’m making observations.”

“You sound like Sherlock Holmes.”

“You look like Watson after the Reichenbach Falls.”

Despite himself, Sam laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Quiet but genuine.

Something eased slightly in his chest.

Jodie noticed that too.

She always noticed things.

She glanced around the apartment, softer now.

“You came straight home and crashed, didn’t you?”

“…Maybe.”

“Sam Ihle.”

“I made Ovaltine first.”

“Oh, well, that changes everything.”

He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

The exhaustion returned all at once now that someone else was present to witness it.

That was the terrible thing about loneliness.

You could carry impossible weight alone for weeks.

Then one person looked at you kindly and suddenly the burden became unbearable.

Jodie’s voice gentled.

“Bad case?”

He nodded once.

She didn’t ask for details.

Reporter courtesy.

Sometimes the people who understood best also knew when not to pry.

Jodie walked over and picked up the Shakespeare anthology from the table.

“You’ve been reading tragedies again.”

“Light bedtime material.”

“Might I recommend literally anything else?”

He leaned tiredly against the wall.

“You staying long?”

She glanced toward the rain-streaked window.

“Depends. You planning to fall asleep face-first in a peanut butter sandwich?”

“I hadn’t ruled it out.”

“Mhm.”

She set the book down and pointed toward the hallway.

“Go shower.”

Sam blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“It’s midnight.”

“And you’ll feel human again afterward.”

He opened his mouth to protest.

Closed it.

Because honestly?

A shower did sound good.

Jodie folded her arms.

“I can make more Ovaltine while you’re gone.”

“You know how?”

“I’m a political reporter, not a medieval peasant.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“Go shower, Ihle.”

He stared at her another moment.

Then finally sighed.

“…Fine.”

“There he is.”

He shuffled toward the bathroom, exhaustion dragging at every step.

Halfway down the hall he paused.

“Jodie?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks.”

Her expression softened in that dangerous way again.

“Just take your shower, Sam.”

The bathroom door shut behind him.

A few moments later, the pipes groaned alive in the walls.

Jodie stood quietly in the apartment listening to the sound of running water.

The place looked exactly like him.

Careful.

Warm.

Lonely.

She glanced at the half-finished Elvis sandwich and smiled faintly.

Then she rolled up her sleeves and headed for the kitchen to make more Ovaltine.