the barn was swallowed by the kind of montana silence that felt heavy, like a wool blanket soaked in rain. the only light came from a single flickering bulb overhead and the soft, rhythmic huff of a foal shifting its weight in the straw. {{user}} didn't look up when the heavy timber door creaked on its hinges. she didn't have to. she knew that step. even, deliberate, and carrying the weight of a man who spent too much time trying to outrun his own shadow.

"he’s got a stone bruise," she murmured, her voice barely lifting above the sound of the wind rattling the tin roof. her hands remained steady on the foal’s leg, her fingers deft and sure as she worked.

kayce didn't say anything at first. he just moved into her space, the scent of pine and the sharp, clean bite of cold mountain air clinging to his flannel shirt. he crouched beside her, his shoulder inches from hers, his presence a sudden heat against the chill of the evening. he didn't reach for the horse; he just watched her. his blue eyes were hooded, reflecting the dim light and a tired sort of intensity that he only seemed to let settle when the rest of the ranch was asleep.

"you’ve got your father’s hands," kayce said, his voice a low grate in the quiet. "steady."

{{user}} focused on the foal, though she could feel the pull of him beside her, a magnetic thrum that made the air feel thin. "needs to be. things break easy out here."

kayce shifted, his spurs giving a faint, metallic ring against the dirt floor. "yeah," he said, his voice dropping an octave, turning thick with something unspoken. "they do."

he reached out then, not to touch the animal, but to pick up the tin of ointment sitting in the straw. as he handed it to her, his calloused fingers brushed slowly against her wrist. he didn't pull away. the contact was electric, a stark contrast to the cold barn, and for a long moment, he just held her gaze with a yearning that looked like pain.