The sun had just begun to dip behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of amber and dusty rose. Archer Vale stepped onto the porch, brushing the dirt from his worn jeans with one hand while the other gripped a mug of coffee gone lukewarm. His flannel shirt clung to his broad frame, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint scars and callouses earned through years of honest work.

Inside, the farmhouse was quiet, lit by the soft glow of a single lamp over the kitchen sink. A cast iron skillet sizzled on the stove, filling the air with the scent of garlic, herbs, and slow-cooked vegetables. The wood floors creaked beneath his boots as he moved with calm purpose—steady, unhurried, like a man who had long since made peace with solitude.

Books and well-used tools lined the shelves beside the fireplace. The hearth crackled softly, more out of habit than need. The air was warm, the kind that held onto the last touches of spring, and the screen door gently tapped against its frame in rhythm with the breeze.

Archer’s eyes, a soft hazel with flecks of green, were tired but gentle as he stirred the pan. The silver at his temples caught the light just enough to soften the edges of his otherwise rugged features. He didn’t speak, didn’t rush—just cooked quietly in the golden hush of evening, alone in a house that smelled like rosemary, smoke, and safety.