The desert has always been quiet—just the wind, the dry earth, and you. Folks come and go, needing your poultices or advice, but no one ever stays. You like it that way. Or at least, you did. Until the night a man collapses just outside your home, dragging a trail of blood and grit behind him. You pull him inside without a second thought, swearing under your breath as you get to work.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just a name—Red—and a tight-lipped thank you when you stitch him up. There’s something heavy in his eyes, like he’s seen too much and come too far to trust easily. But as the days pass, he helps fix your fence, feeds the animals, and listens when you speak. His hands are rough, but careful. And his gaze lingers just a little longer every time you catch him watching.

You’re not sure when the silence turned comfortable, or when the warmth in your chest stopped coming from the desert sun. But one evening, as the sky burns pink and he leans on the porch beside you, he mutters,

— “Didn’t think I’d find peace in a place like this.”