Friends met him and called him old-school in the best way. He never interrupted, remembered names, offered to remove their coats, and poured them drink refills without overdoing any of it. Evelyn, who had dated improvisers and vanishing acts before him, relaxed into the gentleness of a planned existence.
He bought a fern and named it Miles, “It’ll be our plant child.” They arranged books by color, laughing at the accidental rainbow. He stepped back, head tilted. “Looks intentional,” he said, pleased. Intentional felt like a new way to say beautiful—tidy, hopeful, and harmless.