You met Jack Callaghan in the kind of way you only notice in hindsight — quietly, without fireworks, without warning.

It started at the family furniture shop. You weren’t looking for anything in particular — just browsing. You said something offhand about how you liked the feel of real wood under your fingertips, how everything these days felt fake. He looked up from where he was sanding a table leg and said, "Tell me about it."

And that was it.

From then on, you kept stopping by. Sometimes with a reason — a wobbly stool, a bookshelf idea. Sometimes just to see if he was there, if he’d smile when he saw you. (He always did.)

Jack never said much. But the way he looked at you? Like he heard all the things you didn’t say out loud. Like he knew you didn’t just come in for furniture polish. He’d offer you a cup of coffee, sometimes tea, always in a mismatched mug. He’d ask about your day, but he’d listen like your words mattered.

You wanted to tell him.

About the way your heart caught when he laughed. About the ache in your chest when he leaned too close while helping you lift a chair, how you memorized the smell of sawdust and soap that clung to him.

But neither of you spoke it.

There were moments — almosts. Once, you both reached for the same drawer pull and your hands touched. You didn’t move. Neither did he. But then he cleared his throat, looked away.

Another time, he walked you home after it snowed, his hands in his pockets the whole time like he was holding something back. When you reached your door, he opened his mouth to say something — and didn’t.

“I should get back,” he muttered instead.