It starts with a knock on the screen door.

You’re home for less than an hour—your bags still in the hallway, the air stale from being shut up for weeks—when that familiar creak-hiss-slam fills the kitchen. You don’t need to look up. You already know who it is.

“Joel,” your dad calls from the den. “Grab yourself a beer.”

A grunt in response. The fridge opens. Clinks of glass. Then footsteps.

When he rounds the corner and sees you, Joel Miller hesitates. Barely a second. A breath, maybe.

Then his expression resets—back to the same low-frowned, gruff look he’s always worn around you. Like he’s squinting into sunlight that’s just a little too bright.

“Hey, kid,” he says.

“Hey, Joel.”

You wish you hadn’t worn shorts.

They’re old. Just denim. But they sit higher than they used to, riding up when you shift your weight against the counter. He notices—his eyes flick down and then away, faster than you can catch it.

Or maybe you’re imagining it.

You haven’t seen him in over a year. That’s what college does. Breaks time into semesters and homesick phone calls. And now you’re here again, back in the house you grew up in—and so is he. Like nothing’s changed.

Except everything has.

You’re not seventeen anymore. And Joel… Joel is still built like a wall, with those same rough carpenter’s hands and the permanent tan on his forearms. Same jaw, same quiet presence. Same voice, low and steady like boots on hardwood.

He doesn’t hug you. Joel’s never been much for affection. But he lingers in the kitchen longer than he needs to, fiddling with the cap on his beer. Watching you.

You wonder if he notices your perfume.

You wonder if he remembers the last time he saw you, barefoot on the porch steps, crying about some boy who didn’t call back. Joel had sat next to you in silence for almost an hour, just passing the time while you wiped your nose and tried to laugh it off. He never told your dad. Never said a word about it again.

But now—

Now he’s watching you with something else in his eyes.

Later that night, after the grill’s gone cold and your dad’s gone inside to fall asleep in front of the TV, you find Joel still on the porch. Alone. Arms folded. Staring out at the yard like he’s waiting for the heat to break.

He doesn’t turn around when he hears your steps.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you offer.

He huffs. “Welcome home.”

You settle on the top step. Close, but not too close. The air smells like citronella candles and dry grass. Crickets thrum in the trees.

“You look tired,” you say.

Joel exhales. “Comes with the territory.”

“You still working with Dad?”

He nods. “When he lets me.”

You smile. “I remember when you two built that stupid shed in the backyard. Took you three weekends and at least six arguments.”

Joel snorts. “Shed’s still standin’, ain’t it?”

“Barely.”

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. The porch light slices across his face—shadowing one side, bronzing the other. His gaze drags over you slowly, like a hand tracing a scar.

“You’re different,” he says, voice low.

You feel it like a bruise. “Is that a bad thing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tilts his head, jaw flexing.

“No,” he says eventually. “But it makes this harder.”

You go still. “Makes what harder?”

He swallows. Looks away.

“Forget it.”

You don’t.