Llyod had been watching you longer than he should’ve.

Not obvious. Never obvious. But his eyes kept finding you—across the yard, in the barn, anywhere you worked like you had something to prove and didn’t care who noticed. That was the problem.

You didn’t look at him once while you tightened the saddle. Not when he walked up. Not when he stopped close enough that most people would’ve acknowledged it.

That was deliberate.

Lloyd’s jaw shifted, slow, controlled, like he was deciding whether to say something—or not. “You always ignore people standing this close,” he said finally, voice low, rough, just enough edge to it.

You glanced at him then. Brief. Measured. Not apologetic.

Then went back to what you were doing.

That did it.

He stepped closer—not aggressive, but enough that the space between you changed. Tightened. You could feel it now, whether you wanted to or not.

“Horse ain’t the only stubborn thing in this yard,” he added, quieter this time.

You didn’t move away. Didn’t step back. Just adjusted the strap like his presence didn’t shift anything.

Lloyd watched your hands for a second too long before his gaze lifted again, slower now, more deliberate. There was something heavier sitting under his usual calm—something he wasn’t used to entertaining.