The Louisiana sun was just beginning to dip below the bayou horizon, scattering streaks of orange and pink across the sky when Sam leaned against the porch railing of his family home. The air smelled like saltwater and cypress trees, thick with the kind of quiet that only came after a long day.

Inside, laughter drifted through the open window — your laughter. It was light, a little tired, but genuine. Sam smiled softly. You’d been staying with him for almost a year now, after your mom — his late friend from the Air Force — passed away. At first, you barely spoke. You’d sit out on the dock for hours, earbuds in, watching the water, pretending you didn’t hear when he asked if you wanted dinner.

He hadn’t tried to force anything. He knew grief. He’d lived it. He just… showed up. Quietly. Every day.

When your car broke down, he taught you how to fix it. When you failed a math test, he helped you study. When you cried — the kind of cry you tried to hide — he didn’t ask questions. He just sat beside you until the storm passed.