Brett

The dust on the gravel road usually settled long before you reached the edge of town, but that Friday, the air felt heavy with the scent of mown hay and coming rain. ​You knew Brett mostly as a shadow in the breakroom—a tall, broad-shouldered man in faded denim jeans and a black t-shirt who kept his head down and his work ethic high. At the warehouse where you both worked part-time, he was the guy who stayed late to finish the heavy lifting, always polite with a "Morning" or "Pardon me," but never staying long enough to spark a real conversation. ​Word around work was that his life was a cycle of sunrises and duty. He ran his family’s farm single-handedly while caring for his mother, whose health had been failing for years. To you, he was a mystery—kind, surely, but impossibly distant. ​ ​The rumble of a diesel engine slowed behind you. You didn’t think much of it until a beat-up, impeccably clean white pickup truck crept alongside you. The window rolled down, revealing Brett. He wasn't wearing his usual work cap; his dark hair was slightly tousled, and his eyes held a surprising warmth. ​"It’s a long walk to the valley, and those clouds look like they mean business," he said, his voice a low, gentle drawl. He didn't loom; he just waited, his hands steady on the wheel. "I’m headed right past your place. I’d be honored to give you a lift, if you'd like."