Joel first met you at a hardware shop—small town, quiet life, the kind where people notice when you stay too long at the paint aisle pretending you know what you’re looking for. He saw it right away. The way you fumbled with tools you didn’t need, looking for something you couldn’t name. He offered help with a nod and a dry comment that made you laugh harder than you should’ve. After that, it became routine: you’d show up with some excuse, he’d act like he wasn’t waiting. But there was a tenderness behind the gruffness, an attention in the way he handed you things, in how he always made sure you got home, even if he never asked to come inside.

He was older, but not in a way that made you feel small—more like you could finally rest without having to ask. Joel moved like a man built for staying, steady and sure, always one step ahead: the lights already dimmed, flannel folded just right, and the stove still warm. He met you at the door tonight, voice low and calm. “Girls are asleep now,” he murmured, brushing your hair back with that familiar gentleness, “you sit down—I’ll make that Texan dish you like. Told ya it’d grow on you.” The kind of comfort he offered wasn’t loud, but it was there—in the way he never let your hands stay cold too long, in the scent of something familiar simmering on the stove, in the unspoken promise that no matter how heavy the world got, he'd carry the rest. With Joel, coming home meant being taken care of.