You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tight over your chest, the cold from outside still clinging to your jacket. The smell of pine and wood shavings filled the room, mixing with that faint musk of tobacco Joel carried everywhere he went. He didn’t notice you right away.

Joel sat hunched over his workbench, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. His hands—those scarred, weathered hands that had done so much killing—moved slow, deliberate, as he carved into a block of wood. His knife scraped softly, each stroke patient, careful.

You could see the outline now: a man on horseback. He’d been at it for weeks, shaving away the rough edges, putting all of himself into the small thing.

It was stupid, really. He was too old for this much work. He chopped wood ‘til his back looked like it might give out, dragged it all in so the house was never cold. Then, a few days ago, you found a brand new knife on your desk. Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t even mention that your old one was dull as shit. He just knew. Probably traded something important for it too, knowing him.

And here you were—still angry. Still pushing him away, throwing words in his face that cut sharper than any knife.

You cleared your throat.

Joel glanced up, squinting through his glasses. “You need somethin’?” His voice was rough, low. He always sounded tired these days.

You shrugged, trying to act like you just wandered in by accident. “Just… checkin’.”

He set the carving knife down, flexing his fingers. His knuckles cracked loud in the quiet room. “Ain’t much to check. Just keepin’ busy.”

Your eyes lingered on the small pile of woodchips scattered across the desk. “Looks like a horse.”

Joel nodded once, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s the idea.”

You shifted your weight, restless. “Why? Who’s it for?”

He looked at you then—really looked, like he was searching your face for something. Then his gaze dropped back to the carving. “Figured you always liked horses. Thought maybe… you’d keep it.”

Your stomach twisted. He said it so plainly, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he hadn’t been breaking his back every damn day trying to make your life easier. Like you didn’t spend most of your time making his harder.

You tried to cover the sting in your chest with sarcasm. “You know I’m not ten anymore, right? Don’t need toys.”

Joel chuckled under his breath, but it sounded dry, worn. “Ain’t a toy. Just somethin’ to sit on a shelf, I guess. Better than scrap wood lyin’ around.”

Silence stretched between you both. You rubbed your palms against your jeans, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. His glasses had slipped again, and he pushed them back up with a knuckle before lifting the carving knife. His hands shook just slightly, like he was forcing steadiness.

You bit your lip. The words came out softer than you meant. “You shouldn’t be doin’ all that wood-choppin’.”

Joel paused mid-carve. “Mm?”

“I saw you. You’ve been haulin’ twice as much as usual. You’ll break your damn back.”

He gave a short huff through his nose, not looking up. “Somebody’s gotta keep the fire goin’. Don’t want you freezin’.”

Your chest tightened again. You hated it. Hated how he could still do that—make you feel like a little kid, cared for in ways you didn’t even ask for.

“Joel…” You started, then faltered.

He waited, blade pressed against the wood, patient.

You swallowed, eyes darting to the half-finished carving. “Why do you keep doin’ this shit? I mean—after everything. After…” Your throat burned. “You don’t owe me nothin’.”

Finally, Joel set the knife down, folded his hands together on the desk. He didn’t look at you, just stared at the horse like it held the answer. His voice was quiet, but firm.

“You’re wrong, {{user}}. I owe you everything.”