“Ryyyder,” you called out, slumping in the doorway.

He didn’t look up. Just tightened the screw with a short, tense twist, his jaw tight. You’d been hovering all morning—teasing, interrupting, asking questions—and his patience was clearly wearing thin. The bench wasn’t going to build itself, and every delay was another reason to bite his tongue.

Still, you walked toward him, barefoot in the grass. He finally glanced up. Annoyed, yeah—but there was something else under it. He sighed through his nose and reached out, tugging you gently to the side. “Watch it,” he muttered, nodding at the scattered nails near your feet. His hand lingered for a second longer than it needed to. Frustrated or not, he’d never let you get hurt—not if he could help it.