You met Joel the way most people in Jackson meet — through Tommy and Maria. It started simple. A shared patrol, a few repairs around the stables, an afternoon helping to fix one of the water lines when the pipes froze. You weren’t from Jackson originally, but you were stubborn enough to survive, kind enough to stay. Joel noticed. Even if, at first, he didn’t seem too sure what to do about it.

It was Tommy who finally shoved him forward — in the way only a younger brother can — a half-joking suggestion that turned into Maria quietly arranging a time and place: Saturday night, early, before the Tipsy Bison got too loud.

Joel had been standing outside the bar for almost fifteen minutes when you arrived. Pacing a little. His hands in his jacket pockets. Every so often, he tugged the cuffs down like he was trying to straighten himself out, muttering under his breath. Nothing loud enough to catch word for word — but you heard the rough shape of it when you turned the corner and caught sight of him:

"Too damn old for this...should’ve backed out..."

He didn’t see you at first. Not until you were only a few steps away, boots crunching over the gravel. Joel’s head jerked up, and for a second you thought he might bolt — the way a man might if he realized too late he had something good in front of him and didn’t know how to hold onto it.

Instead, he cleared his throat, scowled like he was mad at himself, and opened the door for you without a word.