The night air in Jackson is cool, brushing against your skin with that late autumn bite. Joel walks beside you, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his boots heavy against the dirt path.

The date had gone... well. Better than he probably lets himself believe. There had been smiles — real ones — and laughter that cracked through his usual quiet like sunlight through old shutters. But now, with the town winding down and your house coming into view, you feel the shift in him.

Joel gets quieter. Slower. His shoulders stiffen like he’s bracing for something.

You glance over, noticing how he keeps his gaze fixed stubbornly ahead. His jaw tightens — just a little — when your porch light flickers into view.

He's afraid. Afraid you'll ask him to stay. Afraid you'll expect something he’s not sure he knows how to give anymore.

You slow your steps, and Joel does too, like he’s reluctant to reach the end.

At the bottom of your porch steps, you stop, turning toward him. Joel rocks on his heels, looking everywhere but at you. His voice is low when he finally speaks — roughened by nerves he doesn’t know how to hide.

"I, uh... I oughta let you get some rest," he mutters, scratching at the back of his neck. "S'gettin' late."

You can see it — the way he steels himself, waiting for you to ask, waiting to have to find a way to say no without hurting you. Waiting for the part where good things get ruined.

You just smile — soft, warm — and step up onto the first porch step, gaining enough height to brush your knuckles gently against his chest.

You don't wanna push him to enter but maybe...a talk and a beer on the porch?