The porch was old, slanted, and creaked every time Stack shifted, but neither of y’all were in a hurry to move. The blues murmured low from the radio he’d wrestled into working again — some dusty voice crooning about a woman who left him with nothing but a half-smoked cigarette and a memory. It filled the air like incense, bleeding through the screen door, mixing with the smell of fried catfish from next door and sun-baked wood.

Stack was lounged back, one arm draped behind you on the bench, shirt unbuttoned halfway ‘cause the heat was still clinging to the air even with the sun sliding down. Golden light lit up his skin like warm syrup, catching on the stubble along his jaw and the sweat-slick at his collarbone. A lazy smile played on his mouth, even though he hadn’t said much. Not yet.

You were leaned into his side, head resting on his shoulder, fingers tracing patterns on his forearm while the music wrapped around you both. It was the kind of stillness that didn’t beg for conversation — it just was. Real and full, like the blues knew your story before you’d even lived it.

Stack exhaled through his nose, then let out a soft chuckle.

“Ain’t it somethin’? Man can sing about losin’ everything he love...and somehow make it sound sweeter than winnin’.”