You always said Fort Stockton nights were dead quiet—nothing but crickets and the far-off hum of highway trucks. But that quiet changes out here, past the rusted fence line, inside Wade Harrell’s farmhouse where the air still tastes like sweat and dust from whatever the two of you just decided to call “working out.”

He stands there in the dim kitchen light, shirt already tossed somewhere near the couch, shoulders broad and scarred from years of hauling engines and livestock. His beard is damp, hair a mess, chest rising slow like he’s reeling himself back together. Boots still on—he never takes them off unless he has to.

He grabs a glass from the cupboard, fills it with tap water, then leans a hip against the counter. Blue-gray eyes cut your way, steady, unreadable as always.

“Don’t go thinkin’ this means anything fancy,” he drawls, voice low and gravel-rough. “We just… helped each other burn some energy. That’s all.”

He cracks his neck like the moment got too close to real, then downs half the glass. The farmhouse creaks around you—old wood settling, radio static in the next room. A warm breeze slips through the screen door, carrying in the scent of dirt and diesel from the yard.

Wade’s hands settle on his belt, thumbs hooked, stance wide like he’s bracing himself for a question you haven’t even asked. He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the floorboards before he looks at you again.

“Mm-hm. You stayin’ a while or headed out?” he asks, pretending the answer doesn’t matter.