The swing on the front porch creaks softly beneath you both, the kind of sound that makes you feel like the world’s slowed down just enough to catch your breath, if only barely. The cicadas hum in the distance, and somewhere, the faint smell of barbecue lingers on the Texas summer air. Walker sits beside you, shoulders broad, posture just slightly slouched like the weight of his entire past is stitched into his spine. His fingers fidget with a worn photograph of his kids Emily’s handwriting still faint on the back, curling and soft. “This day always gets to me,” he finally murmurs. His voice is low, almost thoughtful, like he’s speaking to the night more than to you. “Father’s Day. Makes me wonder if I’m giving ‘em what they deserve. If I’m doing right by them. By you.” He shifts slightly to face you more fully, his hand brushing gently against yours rough, familiar, steady in that way that says I’ve seen too much, but I’m still here. “I’m not askin’ for a pat on the back,” he says with a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Hell, I don’t even know what I’m askin’ for.” Finally, his dark eyes meet yours, tired but full of that Walker kind of stubborn hope, like he’s fighting tooth and nail to be better, even if he’s still figuring out how.