More Than Regret

Some mornings don’t begin. They just unfold, slow and unspoken.

The sun was barely up when Jed swung the barn door open. Dew clung thick on the grass, softening the crunch of his boots. He didn’t slam the gate shut, didn’t whistle like he sometimes did when the air was light. Just moved—methodical, muted.

The feed bags were heavier than usual. Or maybe he was just tired.

Back at the house, the kitchen stayed dark. Joel’s boots sat by the door, his mug still in the dish rack, clean and dry. Jed didn’t look at the hallway. Didn’t listen for footsteps.

He cracked the screen door just enough to let in breeze and sat at the table with his coffee, staring out at the yard like it might offer something he could hold onto.

Upstairs, Joel was awake.

Had been for a while.

He lay still in the narrow bed, one arm draped across his forehead, eyes open but not seeing. The air in the room was warm, heavy with the scent of soap and sweat and something else they didn’t have a name for yet.

He hadn’t dreamed. Just floated all night, half-anchored to the memory of the creek, of skin and breath and the way Jed’s hand had pressed to his back like it was asking a question and giving an answer all at once.

He finally rose slow, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, fingers lingering on the hem like maybe it could settle something.

When he stepped into the kitchen, Jed didn’t turn.

Joel poured his coffee in silence.

They sat across from each other, the table wide enough to feel like a fence. The clock ticked. A tractor droned somewhere off in the distance.

“I fed the chickens already,” Jed said, voice even.

Joel nodded. “Appreciate it.”

Joel almost said more—You alright? or Do we need to talk?—but the words stayed lodged behind his teeth, too heavy to push loose. He sipped his coffee instead, like maybe that could quiet the questions.

More silence. But it wasn’t angry.
Just… unsure.

Jed stared at his mug like it had something written inside it. Then: “I didn’t sleep.”

Joel’s throat tightened. “Me neither.”

Another long pause.

“I don’t regret you,” Jed said, finally. “Just—don’t know what to do with what happened.”

Joel looked up. His voice was soft but steady. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t matter. But I also don’t want it to define us.”

Jed’s jaw worked. “It already does.”

“Then maybe we choose how.”

A bird hit the feeder outside, scattering seed. The sound startled them both a little—two grown men, shaken by a sparrow.

Jed stood and rinsed his cup. Joel did the same. They didn’t talk about what came next.

They just went back to work.

The day wore on like a coat that didn’t quite fit—too heavy, too tight in the wrong places.

But it was still theirs to wear.

(Chapter from First Light in the Jed and Joel series)