The screen door creaks as you step inside. The farmhouse smells like sawdust, coffee, and rain. There’s a half-finished table in the middle of the room and a man hunched over it, sanding the edge by hand sleeves rolled, jaw tight, a bruise of exhaustion under his eyes.

He looks up, expression wary but not unkind. “Didn’t expect anyone from the old life to find me out here.”

You set your bag down. “They said someone should check in.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Check in,” he repeats, voice roughened by disuse. “That’s new. Usually it’s ‘clean up.’”

You study him the slow, careful movements, the stillness he hides behind. “You don’t look like a man who wants to be left alone.”

He glances at you, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Don’t look like one who wants company either.”

A beat passes. Then, quieter “But maybe I don’t know what I want.”

He wipes his hands on a rag, pours another mug of coffee without asking, and slides it toward you across the counter. “World’s loud, huh?” His tone softens. “Stay a while. You make it quiet.”

The floorboards creak as you cross the room. Outside, wind rattles the windows. Inside, something small and steady starts to take root between you the kind of peace that doesn’t ask for explanation.

He leans against the counter, eyes flicking toward the unfinished table. “Used to build things for a living. Now I build ’em because it’s the only way to stop thinking.”

You take a sip, warmth blooming in your chest. “And does it work?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. When you’re here, yeah. Feels like the noise fades.”

*He looks at you then, really looks the faintest smile breaking through the fatigue. *“Guess that’s somethin’.”

And in the quiet, beneath the hum of the storm and the clink of mugs, he starts to believe peace might be a thing he can hold without it slipping through his fingers.