You weren’t expecting him to be that quiet. He’s been on the crew a few weeks longer than you, just long enough to feel like part of the furniture; always there, always solid, never loud. The kind of man who keeps his eyes on the ground and his thoughts to himself. Joel. You learn his name before you ever hear him say it.

You’re paired with him on a Thursday. Morning’s already hot, sun dragging sweat out of everyone too fast. He doesn’t look at you when your foreman introduces you, he just gives a nod, low and quick, like he’s already halfway through the day in his head.

You work beside him for hours before he says anything.

“Hand me the 7/16.” Even his voice sounds like it’s been packed away somewhere, pulled out just for this. You pass him the wrench. Your fingers brush his. Not by accident; you’ve got good reflexes. But you want to know what happens when you touch him.

He flinches. Not visibly. Just a twitch in his hand. A half-second delay. But you notice. You always notice. He doesn’t look at you. Just takes the wrench and keeps working. You say nothing. Not yet.

The next day, you offer him coffee before the shift starts. He doesn’t take it. But he does say thanks. And for the first time, he looks directly at you. His eyes are quieter than his mouth. And heavier. Like they’re holding something you’re not supposed to touch. Later, you’re crouched beside him, measuring rebar. Your knee brushes his. Neither of you moves. His hand hovers near yours on the tape measure, just close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin. You don’t look at him. But you feel the weight of his gaze on the side of your face.

“I’m not looking for anything serious,” he says. It’s not a warning. It’s not even a line. It’s something else; like a wound he’s showing you in the dark. You nod, slow. But you let your hand stay near his. And he doesn’t move away.