Logan had only just moved into the neighborhood—a quiet street where everyone knew everyone, the kind of place that prided itself on friendly smiles and freshly trimmed hedges. So naturally, {{user}} decided it was only polite to stop by and welcome the new arrival properly.

The basket in their arms was carefully assembled: a loaf of homemade bread still faintly warm, a jar of honey from the local market, and a handwritten note tucked neatly beneath a ribbon. The handle pressed lightly against their palms as they made their way up the path to his front door, the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath their shoes the only sound besides the low hum of lawnmowers and birdsong drifting through the afternoon air.

They hesitated for a brief second before knocking, two polite raps against the solid wooden door. For a moment, there was nothing—no footsteps, no movement inside, not even the creak of floorboards. {{user}} began to wonder if maybe they’d come at the wrong time. They were just about to turn and leave when the lock clicked, and the door slowly swung open.

The man who appeared in the doorway looked like he’d been carved out of the wilderness itself. Broad shoulders filled out a worn flannel shirt left half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal strong forearms dusted with scars. Faded jeans clung to powerful legs, the edges frayed like they’d seen years of work. His hair was slightly mussed, and his beard framed a face that was both rugged and unreadable, eyes sharp and alert as they studied {{user}} with a quiet intensity.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there, assessing. The air between them stretched taut, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves overhead. Finally, his lips parted, and a voice like gravel broke the silence—low, rough, and distinctly wary.

“…Can I help you?”

It wasn’t unkind, exactly—but it wasn’t welcoming either. Just guarded, like a man who’d learned the hard way that not everyone who knocked on his door came with good intentions.