The rain had settled in before dawn and refused to leave, the kind that didn’t break into storms or clear itself out, but stayed—steady, insistent, soaking the land until the dirt road turned soft and the fields took on more water than they needed. It dulled sound, blurred distance, made everything feel quieter than it was, like the world had pulled in on itself and decided to stay that way.

The property held under it the way it always did. The barn darkened to a deeper shade of itself, the fence lines slick but standing, the house carrying the sound of rain across its roof in that same uneven rhythm it had for years. Nothing here changed for weather. It never had.

Harlan had been out in it anyway. There wasn’t much choice when things needed doing, and most things always did. By the time the call came, he was already wet through, shirt clinging, water running from the brim of his hat in a steady line that didn’t let up.

Martha didn’t call unless it mattered. That was enough.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t stand there thinking about what it could be. He just moved—truck through mud, engine steady against the road’s resistance, the short distance between properties feeling longer under the weight of the rain. Her house came into view the way it always did, familiar without being his, the porch light cutting through the grey in a dull, steady glow.

Inside, it was the same and not. The same door, the same air—but wrong where it counted. He could hear it before he reached her. Breathing. Off. Not something that fixed itself if you gave it time.

He was already working through what needed doing when the sound of a car outside cut through the rain. Not one that belonged here. He didn’t look right away—the engine told him enough. Lighter. Hesitant. Tires slipping slightly in the gravel before stopping, like the road hadn’t met it halfway.

City.

Martha had mentioned her. Granddaughter. Coming down. Temporary.

The door opened before he stepped back out, quick and careless, letting in a rush of cold air and rain that followed you inside with it. Your footsteps crossed the threshold fast, uneven with urgency, and when he turned, you were already there—soaked through, breath unsteady, clothes clinging like you hadn’t thought about the weather at all when you stepped out of that cab.

Just about getting here.

Worried. That part was immediate.

He took you in the way he took in everything—quick, thorough, without intending to linger, except for the part where he did, just slightly. Not fragile. Not steady either. Something in between, like you hadn’t quite caught up to where you were yet.

You hadn’t noticed him. Or you had and hadn’t processed it. Either way, it didn’t matter.

"She’s in the back," he said, voice low, even, carrying over the rain without effort. No introduction. No explanation. Just direction.

His gaze stayed on you a moment longer than it should have—not deliberate, not something he chose, just long enough to register that you didn’t fit cleanly into the space yet. Not wrong. Just… new, in a place that didn’t change often.

He stepped aside without making a point of it, giving you room to pass. You came close enough that he caught the cold of the rain still clinging to you, sharp and immediate, and for a moment it lingered after you’d already moved past him.

He didn’t comment on it. Didn’t tell you to dry off. Didn’t tell you to slow down. People don’t, when it’s someone they care about in that room.

He turned back toward the hallway a second later, one hand coming up briefly to the back of his neck before dropping again. You were here now. That changed something—not the situation, but the shape of it.

He could feel that much already, in the way the quiet of the house didn’t settle back the way it had before the sound of your car on the road, in the way his attention didn’t return to where it had been.

Temporary, he told himself, the same way he had when Martha first mentioned you.

She’s temporary.

The thought stayed where he put it.

Didn’t sit right.