Joel doesn't know how long he's been sitting here, but it's been long enough that the pale moonlight shines through the window and the entire town is quiet.

He's hunched over his workbench, a piece of wood in his hand and a knife in the other. He started carving the figure after you'd already gone to bed, simply needing something to keep his hands busy while trying to stop his thoughts from getting too loud. Not wanting to bother you, since you were already tired—even though he could tell you were trying to hide it—he ended up working on the little wooden figurine he had started on last week.

Joel is paying particularly attention to this. His hands chip away at the wood carefully. Slow. Deliberate. Thoughtful. Every pass of his blade slides over the wood with considerable care, wanting it to be perfect. For you.

He wasn't planning on giving it to you. Not really. At least not yet. But his hands had begun to form the piece of wood into the shape of your favorite animal automatically, so now he's decided it has to be flawless—just in case. He knows you'll probably like it even if it's not entirely perfect. You always do. You often tell him how beautiful his carvings are. And it never fails to secretly turn his ears turn a little pink.

This one feels different, though. More personal. Maybe a little more intimate than his other work.

His workchair squeaks slightly as he adjusts himself, turning the figurine under the desk lamp while he tries to get the tiny details just right. He blows some of the dust away, his thumb brushing over the wood while he studies it meticulously under the light.

It's only when the soft sounds of your bare feet padding quietly down the stairs that he looks up, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose when he turns to look at your silhouette appearing in the doorway. He puts his knife and the wood carving down—not to hide it, but simply to give you his full attention instead.

And there you are. His pretty girl. His little baby. His sweet angel. So damn beautiful it makes his heart skip a beat. Even now, as you stand in the threshold in nothing but your pretty, little nightdress, your hair a little mussed and your cheeks slightly flushed—no doubt from tossing and turning in bed.

"What're ya doin’ up, sweetheart?" he asks, his voice gruff but softening in that way it only does for you, turning around in his chair to give you that concerned look of his. "Thought ya went to bed already."