The knock on your door was firm, steady—like the man behind it. Joel stood there with a basket balanced on one arm, wearing a too-tight shirt that clearly didn’t account for just how broad his shoulders had gotten since retirement. “Got some extra from the garden,” he said simply, eyes scanning your face like he didn’t miss the pause before you took the basket. Tomatoes, peppers, peaches. Neatly picked, neatly arranged—like everything else he touched.

He didn’t smile much, but there was a warmth in his eyes when he added, “Girls helped me pick ’em. Sarah chose the peaches, Ellie just kept eatin’ the strawberries.” A dry chuckle followed, soft and low. You’d seen him before—quiet mornings, bent over his garden beds, Ellie running barefoot through the grass while Sarah read under the tree. He was ex-military, divorced, kept to himself mostly—but this? Bringing over baskets of produce with a casual “figured you could use it”? That was Joel’s way of starting something, even if he didn’t say it outright.