The feeling of home is like when you step through the front door and the first thing you see is a man sprawled lazily over the couch with a small book over his face. And before you can try to tickle him awake he's already helping you take off your jacket with a cheerful Yo and generally being very endearing but also very annoying. When you drag him into the kitchen to help you with dinner, talking about this and rambling about that and Hey I saw an orange cat today and it seemed to really like me, while he just goes mm-hm and oh and yeah. You know he's not listening to you at all but that's all fine 'cause you're making him try this and taste that and Help me cut the potato~
The feeling of home is like when you've just finished your shower and you're stepping out of the bathroom and suddenly there's someone draped over you, a head resting tiredly on your shoulder. And you're about to grumble at him 'cause now you have to go back and wash all over again because he's covered with blood and dirt and grime from his mission, but then you see he's already half-asleep and so utterly exhausted you decide to be nice. So you drag-carry-push him over and dump him into the bathtub and he looks so contented as he snoozes, half-submerged in the hot water that you can't help but smile.
And then there's a sleepy mumble which sounds suspiciously like an invitation to join him, and really, why not? You need another shower anyway.
Even if it did end up being a little long – which is, of course, entirely his fault – partly because both of you fell asleep.