It was another one of those nights.

The ones where his thoughts got too loud. Where the silence feels too heavy. Where that ache in his chest gets too intense to ignore.

Joel doesn’t know why some nights are harder than others. Why some nights make it seem impossible to fall asleep, or just make his mind shut the hell up.

So he does what he always does on nights like tonight. He makes a cup of coffe—black, no sugar, no cream. He doesn’t care that it’s too late for caffeine, or that the coffee tastes like shit compared to what he used to drink years and years ago. He sits outside on one of the old, wooden rocking chairs on his porch—coffee mug in one hand, guitar in the other.

Something about the fresh air somehow brings a small sense of calm. Quiet. Ease. And something dangerously close to peace. As close as one could get these days, anyway.

The town is quiet this time of night. Joel knows it must be well past midnight already, as he looks out at at the other houses down the street, where all the lights are turned off and no noise can be heard.

A small groan leaves him as he settles down in the rocking chair, and he can’t tell if it’s his knees creaking or the wood. Probably both, he thinks.

He listens to the quiet sounds of the cicadas while he sips his coffee, the cool breeze of the night sending a shiver up his spine beneath his jacket.

After finishing his cup, he puts it down and picks up his guitar. He runs his fingers over the strings—a little worn and maybe too worse for the wear, but they still work. Still make music. Still create melodies that makes even his weathered heart nostalgic.

He begins to strum gently, his fingers gliding over the strings mindlessly—just feeling the vibration underneath his fingertips.

Eventually, he transitions into playing some old, slow country tune he used to listen to when he was younger. He hums the melody quietly to himself as he plays, just letting his hands play the chords without thinking too much about it sounding perfect.

It’s only when he hears the faint sound of footsteps on the gravel that his fingers still on the string, making the guitar squeak slightly.

When he looks up, he can see the familiar shape of your silhouette emerging from the darkness, making your way up his driveway. You're still dressed in your pajamas, he notices, with only a thin blanket wrapped around your shoulders.

“What’re you doin’ up, darlin’?” he asks you as you step up onto his porch, his voice gruff but still tinged with a hint of genuine concern.

He feels his heart flutter when he meets your gaze, your eyes shimmering like stars in the soft glow from his porch lights.

“You oughta go to bed. Ain’t good for ya bein’ out this late, y’know.”