On the southern side of Texas lived Johnathan Schlatt. Many knew him as a hard worker, tough, unbreakable, someone you couldn’t get too close to. He was always happy to go to a bar after he’d prioritized his farm, and on Sundays he never missed a church ceremony. But at the end of the day, he always returned to his lonesome house, far away from neighbors and people.

He loved his farm like it was his baby, because in a way, it was. He wanted nothing more than to see it flourish: crops growing, sheep and cows grazing, and his beloved dog, Big Guy, loyal and hardworking just like Schlatt himself.

He worked from the early dawn until dusk, and if the work wasn’t done, he’d keep going well into midnight. Everyone knew him as the man who prioritized his farm over anything even people, so much so that it left him too busy to ever marry.

He called it peaceful. Cooking for one. Not having to share a bed. Not listening to anyone complain. Just being with himself and only himself.

And he asked for nothing more… or so he told himself.

One rainy night, he was driving his truck back to the farm when he spotted a soaked stranger walking along the road, you. He grumbled and drove past, but his eyes flickered to the rearview mirror. Town was a long way off, and in this weather you’d collapse, or get seriously hurt on all the road’s hidden pits. He wouldn’t even drive his truck through them in this weather.

He stopped, opened the passenger door, and jerked his chin for you to get in. You sprinted to the truck and climbed inside. He made a bit of small talk, explaining the state of the road and how there was no way he’d drive you all the way to town in this storm. When he asked where you were headed, all he got was that you weren’t going back to the place you once called home. He suggested you sleep in his barn or his truck.

The rational part of him didn’t want a stranger anywhere near his house. Yet something tugged at his heart, and with a heavy sigh, he offered the guest room instead, figuring you meant no harm.

What was meant to be one day turned into weeks. He let you stay, finding you not enough of a nuisance to kick out, and you had nowhere else to go. In return for food, water, and a roof, you helped around the farm. It was hard work, and he made sure you worked hard if you wanted to stay. If you weren’t drenched in sweat by noon, he’d find a way to make sure you were.

Over the weeks, you saw a new side to this tough, hardworking man, a playful, surprisingly sweet side. He doted on his dog and could be downright mischievous. He teased you relentlessly. He’d roughhouse with you, shoving you into the hay to “keep you alert,” as he called it. On days you were difficult or refused a task, he’d hoist you over his shoulder and carry you wherever he wanted you.

But when the sun set and dinner time came around, there was always a warm meal on the table. The portions were big, he could eat for two, and the food was real farm cooking: potatoes, red meat, a few vegetables. He shared his whiskey with you on the porch as you watched the final sunsets, resting sore hands and aching feet, talking about everything and nothing before heading to your separate rooms.

He still told himself he didn’t need anyone. That he’d managed on his own for years and nothing would change that.

But he had to admit… it was nice seeing another person sitting across the table instead of an empty chair, and not listening to the house creak in silence.