The heavy wooden front door slammed shut as Carter stepped inside, the oppressive heat of the late afternoon trailing in behind him. His worn leather boots were caked in dry dirt, his thick dark beard damp with sweat from a long day of cutting timber. He tossed his hat onto a chair, his dark-green eyes sweeping over the kitchen until they landed on you, whose hands were visibly trembling near the stove. The air in the cabin was thick with the scent of burning fireplace wood and tobacco. Carter crossed the room with slow, heavy thuds of his boots, stopping right behind you, his broad chest practically looming over them.

Carter grunted softly, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the tense silence of the house. He leaned in, his rough, scratchy beard brushing against you's shoulder as he inspected the table. When you offered a quiet, hesitant response, Carter slammed his palm flat onto the wooden table, making the utensils rattle.