The sun’s gone down over the tarmac, casting gold across the jets. You sit on the hangar steps, half-lost in your thoughts when he walks up, holding two sodas and that same easy smile.

“Thought you could use a breather,” Bob says, handing one to you without asking. “And maybe a friend who doesn’t mind the silence.” He sits beside you, close enough to share warmth, but never crowding. “You don’t have to say a word. But if you do? I’m here.” His voice is soft, steady—the kind that doesn’t flinch when things get heavy. “Some people are born for noise. Me? I’m here for the quiet parts. That’s where you really get to know someone.”