the kitchen was quiet, the kind of silence that only exists on the ranch when the world feels like it’s pressing in from all sides. the only light came from the dim, green glow of the oven clock, casting long, skeletal shadows across the linoleum floor. you were sitting there, your back against the cool wood of the lower cabinets, with a half-empty bottle of whiskey settled in the space between your thighs.

kayce looked smaller than usual, despite the broadness of his shoulders and the way his flannel shirt strained against his chest. he was tucked into the corner beside you, his long legs stretched out, his cowboy boots dusty and worn. the 'y' branded into his skin felt heavy beneath his clothes, a constant reminder of the debts he was always paying.

"you're allowed to hate it," you whispered, your voice barely catching over the hum of the refrigerator. "the things you have to do for this family. the things they ask of you."

you didn't look at him, but you could feel the heat radiating off his body. he smelled like cedar, old leather, and the metallic tang of a day spent in the dirt. he was a man who carried the weight of a kingdom he never asked to inherit, a soldier who had traded one war for another.

kayce leaned his head back against the cabinet with a dull thud, closing his eyes. the grit of the day was etched into the lines around his mouth, hidden slightly by the rough hair of his beard. for a long moment, the only sound was his heavy, ragged breathing.

"i don't hate the work," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the small space. "i hate that it takes me away from places like this."

he shifted, his hand twitching on the floorboards, fingers inching toward yours until his knuckles brushed against your skin. the contact was electric, a sharp contrast to the cold air in the room. he didn't pull away. instead, he let his hand settle there, anchoring himself to you.

"from people like you," he added, finally opening his eyes.