You hadn’t planned to stay long. A summer visit, maybe two weeks — check in on your grandparents, make sure the roof hadn’t caved in, remind yourself of what quiet felt like after too many months in the city.
But then there was a knock on the door at nine in the morning, and your grandmother answered with a knowing smile before you even made it to the kitchen. You shuffle into the kitchen, tugging your sweatshirt sleeves over your hands, expecting some neighbor dropping off vegetables. The kind of small-town errand that comes with a pie recipe and unsolicited advice about your future.
“Travis Brody.” She called, like his name explained everything.
“Brought over the corn and…well, you’d best come see for yourself.”
The man on the porch was taller than you remembered — or maybe you’d only met in passing before. He had a little girl balanced on one hip, dark curls a mess around her face as she peeked at you with cautious curiosity. She clutched a soft, worn-out bunny in one hand.
You stop short.
Not because you know him — not really. You remember a boy with a scuffed-up bike and a crooked grin, a few summers tangled somewhere between ten and thirteen. He’d been half-wild back then, all scraped knees and smart remarks.
But this isn’t that boy.
This is a man, taller now, broad-shouldered in a way that fills the doorway like it’s nothing. Faded flannel sleeves pushed to his elbows. Faint grease stains at the cuffs. The curve of muscle beneath sun-worn skin that speaks to long days in fields and under car hoods.
The only thing that hasn’t changed is his eyes. Still that storm-blue, sharp and steady, taking you in with a kind of quiet that hits deeper than words.
Travis gave you a nod — soft, polite, like you weren’t a stranger but not quite a friend yet.
“Morning.” He says, voice low, a little husky.
“Figured I’d drop these by. And…”
He shifts the little girl slightly in his arms. Her round eyes peek at you from behind the curve of his collar.
“She’s startin’ school next month. Could use a bit of help with her reading. If you’ve got the time.”
No pressure. No expectation. Just an ask like you were part of the town by default. Like he figured maybe you could be.
You looked at the girl. She hid half her face behind his shirt but didn’t look away.
And you said yes.
Three days later, you were sitting at Travis Brody’s kitchen table on a Wednesday night, a glass of sweet tea in hand, watching his daughter sound out the word rabbit with all the concentration in the world.
“Good job, bug."
Travis said quietly, ruffling her curls as he passed by. He glanced at you over her head — soft, appreciative.
“Don’t know how you got her to sit still for that long.”
You shrugged, half a smile playing at your lips. His daughter’s giggles filling the space as you help her sound out caterpillar at the table.
He huffed a soft laugh, low and rough around the edges.
“You’ve got the patience of a saint.”
He didn’t say much else — just started clearing dishes, sleeves rolled up, movements easy, practiced. The hum of the kitchen settled around you, a quiet rhythm of clinking glass and soft voices.
Somewhere between washing the last plate and handing you a towel to dry, his hand brushed yours. Not by accident.
And when you glanced up, his eyes were already there — steady, careful, waiting.
Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just fixing things. He was letting something happen.
With you.