Cedar Creek, Utah, 1950s.

The porch boards creaked just before the clock struck six. The screen door gave a dull snap, and he stepped inside, the smell of sun and tar still clinging to him. His boots left faint dust marks on the floor.

You were at the stove, stirring something, not looking up. The radio muttered low — some ad about soap or coffee. The house felt too quiet for two people.

Cain set his gloves down on the counter, the sound louder than it should’ve been.

“Didn’t think I’d make it before six,” he said finally, voice rough from the wind. Cain paused, eyes drifting to the clock, then back to you. “Guess I did.”

You didn’t answer right away. A pan hissed softly. He reached for a glass, poured himself water, took a slow drink just to fill the silence.

“Smells fine,” he added after a moment, not quite a compliment.

Then nothing — just the sound of his boots moving across the kitchen, the scrape of a chair against the floor, and the weight of two people learning what quiet really meant.