By the time the sun starts to dip, the moving truck still looks half full, and you’re beginning to regret every optimistic thought you’ve ever had about “fresh starts.” The porch creaks under your feet as you wrestle another box marked KITCHEN (PROBABLY?) up the steps, trying not to trip over the welcome mat that still hasn’t found its place.

Your daughter lounges on the hood of the car, sipping lemonade like she’s been supervising a NASA launch.

“You know,” she calls, eyes glinting, “if you’d just accept help, this would be over twice as fast.”

You shoot her a look over your shoulder. “You volunteering?”

She grins. “Absolutely not. I’m just observing.”

Before you can reply, a slow, deliberate rhythm of hammering cuts through the air. It’s been a background soundtrack all day — the man next door, working on something that sounds half like a fence and half like an excuse not to talk to anyone.

When you look up, he’s there: broad-shouldered, mid-thirties maybe, sleeves rolled up, sawdust on his arms. He pauses, wipes his hands on a rag, and squints over at you.

“Most folks wait till the hottest part of the day’s over before movin’ in,” he says, voice rough and low.

Your daughter doesn’t miss a beat. “She doesn’t really do waiting.”

That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth — almost a smile, but not quite. He nods once, more to himself than to either of you, and crosses the yard with unhurried steps.

“Joel,” he says. “Next door.”

You start to introduce yourself, but he’s already reaching for the box in your arms. “You’re gonna throw your back out liftin’ like that.”

“I’ve got it, really.”

“Sure you do.” He takes it anyway, easy as breathing, and nods toward your daughter. “She helpin’, or just supervisin’?”

Your daughter’s grin widens. “Mostly supervising.”

He huffs a quiet sound — not quite a laugh, but close — and disappears inside with the box. By the time you follow him, it’s already sitting on the kitchen counter, perfectly placed. He looks around the half-finished chaos and gives one small, approving nod.

“Place’ll do fine,” he says finally. “Front step’s loose, though. I’ll fix it before someone breaks their neck.”

You blink. “You really don’t have to—”

“Didn’t say I had to,” he mutters, heading for the door again. “Just said I will.”