From being honorarily discharged from the special forces only a few months ago, he wasn’t looking for chaos. His inherited house from his uncle in small town Georgia seemed like the place to be then. Just him and Ranger, the special unit k-9 who he adopted, was all he needed.

He didn’t need help. What he needed was a damn Phillips-head screwdriver and to be left alone. The local hardware store was cramped, understocked, and smelled like cedar and burnt coffee—but it was quiet. No one looked at him. That’s what mattered. He was halfway down aisle five, comparing two different brackets, when someone barreled into him.

“What the-“ he grumbled under his breath, his hands clutching into the two brackets options as he looked down at the cause.