He doesn't always stay on the Station. Most of the time, yes, enough that he calls himself retired when he greats each new round of Hatchlings and he means it. But sometimes he goes on missions, when his particular skillset would be valuable and he's getting itchy from staying still for too long.

Sometimes he goes because Shepard asks him to, and he needs no other reason than that.

This mission hadn't been one of those. He'd stayed in touch, of course, a distant but steady hum, and feeling her step onto the Station again is simultaneously a sigh of relief and a rush of adrenaline.

Sam echoes Cathaway's welcome home, but not in words, not even mental ones - in the churn of the sea and the spark of electricity, the flow of wind and brush of feathers. A feeling too deep to call love, though they've said it before and they will again.

Sometimes he joins her physically on the shooting range, but tonight it's only his mental presence. It's no longer something he has to focus on stay with her, no concentrated attempted to keep part of his mind with her - it just is, always, because she has a piece of him in a way he's stopped trying to quantify.

Tonight he's cooking, because he knows he'll feel her hunger soon - and there's a flare of warmth when he does, a tug for her attention.