The front door creaked open and closed with the weight of someone who’d held himself together all day.

Boots thudded against the floor—one, then the other—landing near the welcome mat, like he barely had the energy to kick them off.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Kierston made it to the couch and dropped like a stone. No shower. No food. Not even a word. Just a low grunt, followed by the rustle of worn fabric and the creak of old cushions under a solid, tired body.

His work shirt clung to his back in places, dusty and creased, that faded name patch—K. Hollis—just barely readable over his heart. His forearms were dusted with sweat and soot, veins raised and fingers scarred and calloused, thick with labor. Hands that could probably lift anything.

Right now, though, they just lay over his chest.

Still.

His brown hair, a bit overgrown from skipping the last haircut, fell over his face in lazy strands, sticking slightly to his temple. His eyes were closed. That usual quiet strength muted now, replaced by something softer.

Human.

Exhausted.

Real.