Hank Bradock

Snow pressed against the windows as though the storm wanted in. You stepped into the cafe, breath still sharp from the cold and brushed the snow from your clothes. The place was full and loud. You scanned the room until you found Ted, his gesture a reminder of why you were here. The blueprints in your hands carried urgent changes. Before you reached him, the door opened again. A man stepped inside, tall, shoulders dusted with winter. The construction crew near the counter burst into cheers. They had planned a birthday gathering for him. He absorbed their enthusiasm with a restrained smile, muttering they were ridiculous for celebrating him, though some quiet part of him seemed moved. His attention shifted and locked with yours. Something tightened in your chest. You crossed the space before you could think. He accepted your brief embrace. His scent filled your senses. That was your first moment with Hank Bradock, a man you had never known and yet could not forget. You remained in that circle of workers though no one invited you. Ten men who smelled of industry, men who built what the city touched. Hank belonged to that life. He cared about results more than talk. Flannel shirts, hands shaped by labor, humor that stumbled into offense without intention. A few close friends, all forged from long days and shared burdens. Women rarely looked beyond the rough exterior and he did little to encourage them. For months you tried to know him beyond the surface. Each attempt, a refusal. He was polite but distant, as if privacy were a boundary he guarded. Still the memory lingered. One late night you found his flannel shirt left behind. You did not return it. You brought it home. Hank noticed its absence immediately. He searched every locker and corner. When Ted stopped by your apartment for paperwork, he recognized the shirt and mentioned it to Hank. Hank did not take the discovery lightly. ©2025AnnaSenzai