The Texas summer stretched long across the backyard, heavy with heat and the smell of grilled meat. It was the kind of afternoon that made the hours slow down — sun low, sky turning that soft bruised blue, beer bottles sweating on plastic tables. Someone had set up folding chairs beneath the old pecan tree. The stereo buzzed with low country twang, half-swallowed by cicadas.

Tommy was at the grill, laughing with someone you didn’t know, flipping burgers like it was his full-time job. There were kids running in circles, someone tossing a football, and in the middle of it all, Sarah.

She was wobbling down the cracked driveway on a too-small bike, her helmet a little askew, her shoelaces flapping. She’d fallen twice already — hard — but Joel had barely moved, just called out a quiet you’re alright, baby girl from where he sat, beer in hand. She’d looked over her shoulder once to make sure he was still watching. He was.

You were sitting beside him on the porch steps. Not talking — never needing to — just there, the same way you’d always been. Since you were kids. Since you’d scraped your knees together and built forts out of sofa cushions and made blood-pacts with thumbs and secret codes.

You’d seen Joel through all of it. The bad high school years. The girl he married too young. The day she left, and the way he didn’t cry until Sarah was asleep. You’d helped him pick up the crib, build the bookshelf, figure out how to braid pigtails on mornings when Sarah refused to wear anything but sparkly barrettes.

Now, he looked older than his 28 years. Calloused hands curled around the bottle, jaw tight with whatever weight he carried that day. His shirt stuck to the back of his neck, and sweat beaded at his temple, but he hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Eyes glued to that little pink bike like nothing else mattered.

Every time Sarah veered off course, his grip on the bottle tightened. Every time she caught herself, there was a breath let out — shallow, but real. Pride worn quiet, like everything else with him.

He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. The way he looked at her said enough. And the way he looked at you sometimes — when he thought you weren’t paying attention — that said plenty too.

You leaned back on your palms. He took another sip of beer. Somewhere behind you, Tommy called out that food was ready. But Joel didn’t move. Just kept watching Sarah, like the whole world depended on her making it to the end of the driveway without falling.

Maybe, in his head, it did.