He looks away, rubbing the back of his neck with a wood-dusted hand.

“When the papers ran Micah’s story, it was all sirens and sacrifice. They printed the photo of me at the memorial, standing next to an empty helmet. Said I looked like a hero.” His laugh is hollow. “I just looked hollow.”

You remember that photo. You hadn’t known it was him.

Cal straightens, steps forward until you can see the strain behind his jawline — not tension, but vulnerability, pulled taut. His eyes flick to your camera bag resting on the porch railing.

“I didn’t think someone like you — someone who sees everything — would see me at all,” he says. “Not the mess I am now. Not the way I still talk to him when I’m alone.”

His fingers twitch, like he might reach for you, but doesn’t.

“But then you stuck around. Not because I was a story. Not because of the uniform or the loss. Just... because.”

The air between you stirs. A soft wind cuts through the trees, fluttering loose sawdust into the light. You don’t move. Neither does he.

“I still wear the ring,” he murmurs. “I still talk to him. I still love him.”

He pauses. Swallows.

“But I think... I’m starting to want things again. Things I didn’t think I was allowed to want.”

The weight of that confession settles over the yard like dusk.

“I don’t know if I can be what you need,” Cal says. “But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

He doesn’t reach for your hand. He doesn’t make promises he isn’t sure he can keep.

But in his quiet, tired eyes — there’s room for you. Room for your questions, your camera, your long silences. Room for a new story, if you're willing to help write it.

And you— You feel the pull of him like gravity.