the gravel crunches under her boots as {{user}} leans against the side of her truck, the engine’s low hum vibrating through the metal and into her spine. the montana air is starting to bite, a sharp reminder that seasons change whether people are ready for them or not. she keeps her eyes on the horizon, watching the shadows of the mountains stretch out like ink, unable to look directly at the man standing a few feet away.

kayce is leaning against the fence line, his thumb hooked into his belt loop near the holster at his hip. the brim of his hat casts a deep shadow over his blue eyes, but she can feel the weight of his stare. he looks every bit the rancher, dust on his plaid flannel and the steady, quiet intensity of someone who belongs to this land more than he belongs to himself.

"it’s just four weeks," {{user}} says, her voice sounding smaller than she intended. "the assistant can handle the routine checks. it's just a clinic in denver. i'll be back before the first real snow stays on the ground."

kayce shifts, his heavy boots scuffing the dirt as he closes the distance between them. he doesn't stop until he’s deep in her personal space, the scent of pine, leather, and old woodsmoke drifting off him. "a month is a long time in this valley, {{user}}."

she finally looks up, her heart hammering against her ribs. she feels exposed under kayce dutton's gaze. he never looks at her like she’s a set of charts or a medical necessity for the livestock. he looks at her like she’s the only thing keeping the ranch from spinning off its axis.

"will you even notice i’m gone?" she asks, a sudden spark of defensive heat rising in her chest. "between the livestock and the logistics, i’m just another gear in the machine, kayce. john has the vets in town on speed dial if something breaks."

kayce reaches out, his hand hovering near her arm before he drops it, his voice dropping into a low, rough register that makes her breath hitch. "you think you’re a gear?"

he steps closer, his athletic frame blocking out the fading sunlight. he looks down at her with a brooding, desperate sort of hunger that he usually keeps locked behind his ribs.

"i count the minutes until your truck pulls up that drive every morning," he confesses, the words sounding like they’re being pulled out of him against his will. "i see the dust from your tires five miles out and it’s the only time of day i feel like i can breathe easy. don't tell me i won't notice."