The house is quiet when you tell him.

Joel is at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee that’s already gone cold. His hands are wrapped around it, calloused fingers drumming against the ceramic. He’s listening—really listening—but his face stays unreadable.

A PhD in Europe. A huge opportunity. Something you worked for, dreamed about. And now it’s here, right in front of you.

His jaw shifts, just a little, like he’s working through something he doesn’t want to say. “That’s… somethin’.”

You can tell he means it, but the words sit heavy between you.

His fingers tap the side of the cup, a slow rhythm, like he's measuring the weight of it all. Joel’s always been like this—quiet when things get too big, when emotions threaten to slip past the walls he’s spent years building.

Finally, he exhales, setting the cup down with a dull thud. His voice is rough, careful. “How long would you be gone?”

The answer is a gut punch. Years.

Joel nods, slow and measured, but his gaze flickers—down to the table, to his hands, anywhere but at you. The muscle in his jaw ticks again.

“Hell of an opportunity,” he murmurs. It should sound encouraging, supportive. Instead, it sounds like grief.

You know what he’s thinking. What he won’t say.

That this—you and him—might not survive the distance. That long nights and phone calls won’t be enough. That once you go, you might not come back.

That maybe, deep down, he’s not enough to make you stay.

His fingers curl into a fist on the table before he forces them to relax. He swallows, eyes finally meeting yours, searching. “You want this?”

Because that’s what matters. Not him. Not his fears. You.

And Joel—Joel Miller—he loves you too much to ever ask you to stay.