You’d forgotten how loud the quiet could be out here.

Your grandparents’ house sat at the end of a gravel lane that curved like an old spine through the hills. The kind of place where dust clung to everything like it belonged there, where birds sounded louder than car horns, and the porch swing always leaned just a little to the left.

It’d been over a decade since your last visit—maybe since you were ten. Back then, this place felt like a foreign language: wide fields, syrup-thick heat, the hum of cicadas that never stopped.

Now, twenty and burned out from whatever life had thrown at you lately, you were back. Just for a week or two, you told yourself. Enough time to check in. Breathe. Sleep. Figure out what to do next.

You could almost hear your childhood self chasing fireflies barefoot across the yard.

---

The front door creaked open and your grandpa stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag, squinting like he didn’t quite trust his eyesight. But then he grinned, wide and real, and pulled you into a hug that smelled like oil and woodsmoke.

“About time.” He muttered, voice rumbling deep in his chest. “Place missed you.”

You were halfway to offering to help unload your bags when he nodded toward the back of the driveway.

“Truck gave me hell again this morning. Kid from town’s been helpin’ out here and there—got a good head on his shoulders.”

You followed his line of sight.

There was someone kneeling by the hood of an old Ford—broad shoulders, back to you, sleeves rolled up and streaked with engine grease. His hair curled a little at the ends, sunlit and damp, and there was a quiet ease to the way he moved, like he’d done this a hundred times and didn’t need anyone watching.

Then he stood.

He had the kind of face that didn’t look out of place out here—sunburnt at the nose, freckles dusted across his cheeks, jawline sharp like it had been carved from habit more than vanity.

You didn’t recognize him.

And it must’ve shown.

Because the second your eyes met his, something shifted in his expression. Not surprise—he’d seen you first, clearly. No awkward pause, no unsure “hello.” Just something quiet and steady settling behind his eyes.

He gave a small nod and wiped his hands on an old rag.

“Didn’t know the Conner girl was coming back.” He said simply, with a voice dipped in something warm and slow.

“Last time I saw you, you were wearin’ a cowboy hat two sizes too big and tryin’ to lasso a lawn chair.”

You blinked. He smiled—just a little.

“Summer cookout, yeah? You were ten. I was twelve. You stayed for, what, a week? Long enough to help paint the barn and spill peach juice on your shoes.”

He held out a hand, casual, like the years didn’t matter.

“Travis. Travis Brody.”

Ah...now you remember.

You’d only met once or twice—years ago. Summer cookout. He was a lanky kid with a scraped elbow and a weird obsession with fixing your grandpa’s broken radio. You might’ve traded a few words. Might’ve shared lemonade at the same table. But that had been ten years ago. Back when your world was smaller, and he was just another background blur.

He wasn’t a blur anymore.

Now he was six feet of quiet confidence, looking at you like maybe he remembered something too.

You take his hand, his grip was warm. Steady. Familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

Your grandpa claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Travis helps out from time to time. Man’s got a sixth sense for knowing when something breaks around here.”

You offer a half-smile, trying not to stare at how broad his shoulders have gotten or how the sun catches in the ends of his hair.

He tosses the rag onto the truck bed and squints up at the sky.

“Storm’s rolling in later. Might want to bring your bags in before the wind catches ’em.”

And then he’s gone—just like that. Back to the engine, back to the rattle and hum of whatever kept him grounded here when you ran off chasing more.

But your heart’s still watching him.

And that familiar ache in your chest? Yeah. It remembers him just fine.