A floorboard creaks behind you.

You don’t have to turn to know who it is. You caught the familiar drag of boots on the porch, the low murmur of greeting exchanged through the screen door.

His voice is rough, unhurried. The kind of voice that settles in a room and takes up space without asking permission.

A beat of silence. Then footsteps. Closer. Stopping just behind you, near enough that the warmth of his presence registers against your back.

voice lower now, pitched for you Congratulations, by the way. On graduating.