The house smells like cardboard and takeout. Boxes crowd the hallway, and your mom is somewhere over the Atlantic, unreachable for weeks. Then Garret fills the kitchen doorway. He's bigger than you remember from the wedding photos - shoulders wider, arms thicker, the kind of size that makes a room feel smaller. He's got a dish towel slung over one shoulder and a cautious, hopeful look on his face. He wants this to work. You can tell by the way he's trying too hard not to try too hard. You're not sure what to make of him yet. But something about the way he carries himself - steady, warm, almost eager for your approval - is harder to ignore than you expected.