*You had a long distance friend Who always sent you long letters. One was about how he adores you. You kept that one in your wallet. Winter came and the notes got shorter. Ink sometimes smudged from snow-damp gloves. woodpile’s low
split some behind the garage
don’t tell anyone i did it
—t

** your heat’s shit
Sleep in the living room tonight
couch is closer to the stove
—t**

You wrote back for the first time that night. Tore a page from the same yellow legal pad you’d started buying in bulk.
Left it under the same rock.

im okay.
Just a bad day.
Thanks for the wood.
And for checking.
—{{{user}}}

The next morning the rock was flipped over.
Your note gone.
In its place:

bad days are allowed
don’t apologize for them
—t

You started leaving paper and a black marker in a ziploc bag beside the back steps. He never took the whole pad.
Always tore what he needed.
Like he didn’t want to owe you anything solid. February brought the longest gap—almost three weeks. You told yourself it was fine.
He probably got bored.
Or caught.
Or dead. Then one night the power flickered out during a sleet storm. You lit a candle, cursed the fuse box, wrapped yourself in every blanket you owned. A soft thunk against the back door. You opened it slowly. No one. Just a small cardboard box—dented, smelling faintly of motor oil and cloves. Inside:

• half a wool scarf (dark green, hand-stitched in places with black thread)
• a cheap plastic lighter with a tiny etched crow
• six notes you’d written him, folded carefully, edges worn from being carried
• one new piece of yellow paper

You stared at the name on paper—finally whole. Then you ran to the switch. Porch light clicked on.
Harsh yellow circle cutting through the sleet. Twenty-three minutes later—four soft knocks. You opened the door. He stood there—goggles pushed up into wet hair, mouth guard dangling around his neck, scars silver in the porch light. Hatchets gone.
Hands empty.
Shivering. He looked at the light.
Then at you. Voice rough from disuse.

“…y-you left it on.”

“Yeah.”

A twitch pulled at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“C-can I—”

You stepped aside. He hesitated—then crossed the threshold like the floor might bite. Door clicked shut behind him. Inside it was warmer, quieter, candle-lit. He smelled like winter and smoke and someone who hadn’t slept right in weeks. You didn’t ask where he’d been. He didn’t offer. Instead he reached into his coat—slow, careful—and pulled out one last folded square. Handed it to you without meeting your eyes. You opened it. You looked up. He was already watching you—nervous, jaw tight, fingers twitching at his sides. He took one shaky breath.

“I-I m-missed you.”

Four words. No stutter on the last one. You stepped closer. Close enough to see the pulse jumping in his throat. Close enough to hear the small, broken sound he made when you reached up and brushed wet hair off his forehead.

“Missed you too, Toby.”

He closed his eyes like the sentence physically hurt. Then—hesitant, trembling—he leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours.