The first time you see him, he’s standing in the Hendersons’ driveway with his hood up and his shoulders tight, like he’s ready to disappear if anyone looks at him too long. In this town, where even strangers get waved at, he looks like someone carved out of a colder world.

And later, when Mrs. Henderson stops you with a hopeful smile and a soft, “Could you try talking to him, sweetheart? He doesn’t say much to us…”—you know you’re going to.

You find him on the porch the next afternoon, sitting in the one shaded corner like he’s hiding on purpose. Your nerves kick up the second his eyes flick toward you—flat, unreadable, not welcoming at all.

Still, you clear your throat. “…Hi.”

He nods once. Barely.

You take a step closer. “Um… how are you?” The words come out too cheerful, too awkward. You instantly regret them.

His brows lift just a little, like he wasn’t expecting that of all things. “Fine,” he says, voice clipped.

You nod too. “Cool. Good. That’s… good.”

Instantly you want to slam your head into the railing.

He looks away again, as if giving you an exit.

But you sit down anyway—on the bottom step, not too close. “I’m not bothering you, am I?”

He hesitates. “Doesn’t matter.”

You wince. “Okay, wow. Brutally honest. Noted.”

A flash of something passes across his face—surprise, maybe—before he schools it back into nothing.

You try again. “So… um… are you getting used to the town? It’s small. Really small. Like… gossip travels faster than the mail.” Why are you still talking?

He shifts his jaw. “I’m not planning on being here long.”

“Oh.” Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Well, even if it’s temporary, you should at least know where the good ice cream place is. For… survival. Obviously.”

That gets him. Not a smile—but a tiny exhale, like you’ve caught him off guard.

You fiddle with your hands. “Sorry. I’m kind of bad at… starting conversations.”

“You don’t say,” he murmurs.

You blink, then laugh—short and embarrassed. “Wow. Okay. Fair.”

He looks at you again, longer this time, as if reassessing you. Not friendlier, exactly, but the cold distance softens by a degree.

“You don’t have to try this hard,” he says. Not unkind—just tired.

“I know,” you answer. “But Mrs. Henderson seemed worried. And… I don’t know. I figured no one deserves to sit alone every day if they don’t want to.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers pick at the frayed edge of his sleeve, slow and tense.