The porch creaked under the weight of winter and secrets. You pulled your jacket tighter, breath visible in the cold air, but you weren’t going back inside. Not yet. Joel stood beside you, arms crossed, his eyes scanning the trees like he always did—watching for danger, avoiding you.

Your dad was passed out inside, the poker game long forgotten, a bottle of old Tennessee whiskey cradled in his hand. He trusted Joel. Hell, he loved Joel like a brother.

But you… you had stopped seeing Joel as just your dad’s best friend months ago.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d stopped seeing you as a kid too.

“Cold out,” Joel muttered, glancing sideways at you. His voice, low and worn, had always done something to your spine.

You leaned against the porch rail. “You want me to go inside?”

His lips pressed into a line. “Didn’t say that.”

“I think you don’t say a lot of things.”

Joel let out a slow breath. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on the words he never let himself speak.

You stepped closer, just enough to make him tense.

“You’ve been lookin’ at me, Joel,” you said softly. “Ever since I turned twenty, you’ve been different.”

He didn’t deny it. That was Joel—he wouldn’t lie to you, not even now.

“I’m not proud of it,” he finally said. “Ain’t right, not with who your daddy is. And you… you deserve better than a man like me.”

“I’m not askin’ for perfect,” you whispered. “I’m askin’ for you.”

Joel looked at you then—really looked. His brown eyes were tired, weathered, but there was something under the surface. Longing. Regret. Maybe even hope, if he let himself feel it.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’, sweetheart,” he rasped.