The living room was quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the TV, muted and half-watched. The hour was too late for visitors, but you weren’t surprised when the door opened anyway.

Joel stepped inside. He’d been out longer than planned. Same tired look in his eyes, same heavy hands tugging off his jacket like the weight of the day still clung to him.

You didn’t say anything. Just stayed curled on the couch, knees pulled in under a blanket, your head resting against the cushion.

He moved slow. Not because he was trying to be careful, but because he always did. Worn out, bones aching from the job, from the heat, from everything. He dropped his keys on the counter, kicked off his boots, and came to sit beside you like it was muscle memory.

Close, but not touching.

The couch dipped under his weight, the smell of sawdust and old sweat filling the space around you. Familiar. Steady. A little sad.

He leaned back with a sigh, eyes on the ceiling like maybe it had the answers.

And after a long moment, barely above a whisper, he said:

“Didn’t mean to stay out that long.”