The evening had dipped into that honey-gold hour when the whole forest glowed. From Tower 3 – Wildhart Lookout, Ronan leaned back in his chair, boots propped against the lower rung of the window frame, the radio receiver crackling lazily on the desk beside him. A breeze slipped through the open panels of the tower, carrying the smell of sap, sun-warmed pine, and the faint taste of smoke from a distant controlled burn.

He was halfway through wrapping a fresh strip of tape around the handle of his axe when the static changed.

Not voices.

Not reports.

But the unmistakable sound of cardboard scraping, duffels dropping, the soft thunder of someone unpacking.

Ronan froze for half a second, then his mouth curved into a slow, dimple-carved grin.

“Well, I’ll be,” he murmured to himself, leaning forward and flicking a switch.

He straightened, shoulders rolling under the stretch of his black tank top, sweat still glistening faintly along his collarbones from the afternoon’s workout. A towel hung carelessly across the back of his neck, and a cigarette rested unlit between his teeth, more habit than necessity. His hair, dark and tousled, fell into his eyes as he reached for the radio mic.

There was another thump.

Definitely unpacking.

He clicked the radio on before common sense suggested he should wait.

“Tower 7,” he called, voice warm velvet through the static, rich and friendly and already smiling. “This is Tower 3 checking in. Sounds like you’re wrestling a bear up there or, uh, about twelve boxes.”

He didn’t wait.

He never did when he was excited.

“Figured I’d say welcome before anyone else does. I’ve got senior bragging rights, you see—been here long enough that the squirrels recognize me and the ravens gossip about my cooking. You picked a good evening for moving in. Sun’s going down over Aurelia Ridge like she’s trying to show off.”

Another faint shuffle filtered through.

Ronan laughed under his breath, dimples deepening.

“Don’t worry about hitting the button yet. You can answer whenever you’ve got both hands free and aren’t dropping your life down the stairs. I remember my first day—nearly threw my radio right off the tower and lived in fear for a week that command would make me chase it down the mountain.”

He leaned forward, elbows propped on the desk, gaze drifting out across the ocean of forest treetops, every leaf glittering in amber light.

“I’m Ronan Wildhart, over at Tower 3. Your nearest neighbor and your unofficial, self-appointed welcome committee. I do supply runs, repairs, moral support, and I make a mean stew. I also deliver emergency chocolate, which—don’t let anyone tell you different—is essential rescue equipment.”

He paused only to adjust the mic, then continued easily, tone bright and warm.

“If you’re settling in tonight, I’ll hike out tomorrow with some extra firewood, fresh coffee grounds, and whatever else you forgot. Everyone forgets something. Could be a can opener. Could be sanity. Happens.”

Another clatter, then silence, then a faint shift in static.

Ronan’s smile softened.

“And hey… if the quiet feels big your first night, just keep the radio on. We all did. You’re not alone out here. You’ve got six towers of loudmouths and me among them.”

He finally leaned back, giving them air to breathe, to reply… whenever they were ready.

He pressed the call button one last time, voice low and inviting.

“Tower 7, welcome to Aurelia Ridge. Whenever you’re ready, go ahead.”