You found him on your porch, guitar in hand, fingers hovering over the strings like they were made of glass. The stars were out. The wind soft. And Joel? He looked like a man wrestling ghosts.

—“Couldn’t sleep,” he muttered when you opened the door. “Figured... maybe you couldn’t either.”

You stepped aside, and he entered like he always did—slowly, like the world inside your house moved gentler than the one outside.

He sat by the window. You made tea. And when you handed him the mug, he didn’t take it.

Instead, he looked up at you. That look he got when words were stuck somewhere between his throat and his chest.

—“I’ve been workin’ on somethin’,” he said, clearing his voice.

You raised a brow.

—“A song,” he added. “Not for patrol. Not for Ellie. Just… for you.”

You sat down without a word.

He adjusted the strap over his shoulder, inhaled, then started to play—soft chords, not quite sad, but heavy with meaning. His voice followed—rough, low, but warm in all the ways winter wasn’t.

The lyrics were simple.

About the way your laugh cracked open quiet rooms. About your stubbornness on cold mornings. About how he'd watch you tie your boots tighter than your walls. About how every time you walked away, he felt the silence a little louder.

And then the last line, whispered more than sung:

“You made this place feel like home... and I ain’t had one in a long, long time.”

Silence.

He didn’t look up at first. Just stared at the strings.

—“I know it ain’t much,” he mumbled, “but it’s the only way I know how to say it.”

You leaned forward.

—“Say what, Joel?”

He finally met your eyes, and his voice cracked just enough to let the truth slip out.

—“That I love you.”

No grand gestures. No crowd. Just you, him, and a song no one else would ever hear.

And maybe… that was enough.