The dogs barked before the car even pulled in.

Will stood on the porch, one hand wrapped tight around a chipped coffee mug, steam curling toward the treeline like smoke from a distant fire. His other hand rested on the rail, knuckles pale in the morning light.

The forest behind him stretched wide and empty, the house a crooked tooth in the wilderness. It was not a place built for company. And yet.

Tires crackled up the gravel drive. A figure emerged—bag slung over one shoulder, eyes ringed with the kind of exhaustion that couldn’t be slept off. His sibling. You. Almost unfamiliar in the flesh, like someone he’d studied from a distance but never truly seen up close.

There had been birthdays, maybe. A few stiff calls after their father died. But this? This was closer than they'd ever been. Will didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just stepped back from the railing and opened the door without a word.

Inside, the air was warm and stale with dog hair, pine, and the sharp tang of metal from the sink full of unwashed dishes. Winston circled your feet, tail wagging slow and suspicious, like he wasn’t sure if this visitor was staying. Will’s shoulders tensed when the door closed behind you—soft click, softer silence. He didn’t look back.

“It’s not… permanent,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “The flooding. Your building. You’ll go back once it’s fixed.” Not a question. Not really.

He moved to the kitchen, pouring a second cup of coffee without asking if you wanted one. His hands shook, slightly. Not fear—just the friction of presence, of someone else in his orbit, orbiting too close.

“I don’t usually have people here.” The mug slid across the counter toward you, leaving a thin arc of black coffee in its wake. It bumped against a dog-eared book on criminal pathology, left open to a page about disorganized offenders.

He finally looked up. “You don’t have to talk to me,” he said. “You just have to live here.”

And then he turned, retreating to the porch like it might swallow him whole.

Later, the sky cracked open with a soft summer rain, the kind that turned the yard to mud and made the pines hiss. Will stood at the edge of the steps, head tilted toward the tree line, rain clinging to his lashes. The dogs huddled close, warm against his legs. He didn’t speak until you stepped out beside him.

“You don’t know me,” he said, not looking over. “That’s not your fault.” His voice was quieter than the rain, but it carried. “I don’t know how to be anything but alone. But I’m not gonna let you sleep in a motel.”

One hand twitched at his side. Not a gesture—just an impulse he didn’t follow through.

“You can stay. I’ll… adapt.” His jaw clenched as if the word itself was painful. But he meant it.