Your dad always said he didn’t need a lot of friends—just the good ones. “Quality over quantity,” he’d remind you. That’s why, when he hosted Christmas dinner for close friends and family, he invited Joel Miller. Joel was a guy your dad had met while helping install the flooring in the house you’d just bought in the neighborhood. He seemed like a decent man—gruff, sure, but polite in his way. And during the dinner, he’d been quiet but attentive, offering the occasional dry humor that made everyone laugh.

The dinner was over now, and the room buzzed with the lingering warmth of conversation and clinking glasses. You stood up, gathering plates. You couldn’t stand leaving a mess, no matter the occasion. As you reached for another dish, Joel rose from his seat, his movements deliberate but steady. Before you could react, he reached out and took the plates from your hands with ease.

“Here, let me help with that,” he said, his voice low and steady.

You blinked in surprise, meeting his gaze. He gave a small, half-smile—almost shy, but sincere. The kind of smile that didn’t come easy to him but felt earned.