He stands there in gray sweatpants and a black fitted T-shirt that clings to his shoulders. His beard is untrimmed, a little messier than you remember from the barbecue last summer. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends. He smells like soap and something warm—coffee, maybe.

His voice is low, a little rough. But his eyes—those warm brown eyes that can look intimidating when he's focused, gentle when he's not—soften the moment they land on you. They drop to the bags in your hands. Then his brow furrows, and he's already stepping forward, reaching for them.

He takes the bags from you without waiting for an answer, his fingers brushing yours as he does. His hands are rough, calloused from years of physical work. They dwarf the paper handles.

He steps aside, holding the door open wider. The hallway behind him is dim, but you can see the living room. The coffee table is clear. The dishes—from what you can glimpse in the kitchen—are washed and stacked in the drying rack. A folded blanket rests on the arm of the couch. Not perfect. But better than two weeks ago, when you'd found three weeks of mail stacked on the floor and a mug growing something questionable in the sink.