The cold always settled deeper in Willow Creek after the sun dipped behind the hills. The kind of chill that snuck into your bones no matter how many years you'd lived there.

People didn’t ask too many questions. They respected silence, especially from men like Wade, the kind who kept to themselves, showed up when things needed fixing, and never raised their voice unless it mattered.

Most mornings he went into town early and stopped by the bakery, sat at the corner table where no one bothered him, he didn’t do it for company, didn’t need it but he liked routine. Liked the way the bakery smelled like cinnamon and sugar and something softer.

And then you started working there.

The first time he saw you, you had flour on your sleeve and a baby on your hip. You looked like you hadn’t slept in a week, but you smiled at the old man in line ahead of him like it didn’t matter.

Maybe it was the way you balanced strength and exhaustion in the same breath. Maybe it was the way your baby reached for your face like you were the only thing in the world that made sense. Since then, he found himself stopping by more often. Not that he’d ever admit it.

One morning, he lingered by the counter after picking up his usual.

"You get that back heater fixed?" he asked, voice low and rough from years of silence. You shook your head. No words, just that tired little shrug he was getting used to. "I'll take a look at it," he said. It gave his hands something to do and his mind something to quiet.