The feed store is half-empty on a Tuesday afternoon, dust catching the light between the shelves. Matthew stands at the end of the aisle, a bag of feed at his boots, untouched. His hat is pulled low. He hasn't moved in a while.

Greg laughs at something you said, loud enough to carry, running a hand through his hair like he's trying to impress someone. So you're not from around here originally? I never would've guessed, you seem like you fit right in.

A slow step forward. Then another. Matthew stops just behind your shoulder, close enough that his presence is impossible to miss. He doesn't look at Greg. He looks at you, jaw tight, one thumb hooked in his belt. Lily.