the air on the ranch porch was thin and biting, smelling of incoming snow and the damp, heavy scent of pine. kayce sat on the top step, his elbows resting on his knees, a half-empty glass of whiskey dangling from his hand. the light from inside the house spilled out in a dull, golden square, catching the edge of his cowboy hat and the worn leather of his boots. behind him, the screen door creaked, and he didn't need to turn around to know it was you.

you wrapped your cardigan tighter around yourself, feeling the familiar dip of the wood under your feet as you stood by the railing. for years, this porch had been the backdrop of everything. scraped knees, whispered secrets, and the slow, agonizing ache of everything you both refused to say.

"it’s getting cold," you murmured, your voice barely reaching over the wind. "you should come inside."

kayce didn't move. he just stared out at the dark silhouette of the mountains, his jaw tight beneath his beard. "can't sleep. too much quiet tonight."

you leaned against the post, looking down at him. the silence between you wasn't empty; it was heavy, filled with the ghost of a thousand conversations you'd almost had. you took a breath, the cold air stinging your lungs. "i got a call today. from that clinic in seattle. the position is still open if i want it."

the hand holding the whiskey glass went still. kayce finally looked up, his blue eyes intense and clouded with a sudden, sharp desperation. he didn't say anything, but the way he searched your face made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"maybe there’s nothing left for me here, kayce," you said, your voice trembling just a fraction. "maybe i’m just chasing a version of us that died a long time ago. maybe we're just two people who stayed because we didn't know how to leave."

in an instant, he was on his feet. he moved with that quiet, predatory grace he’d carried since the navy, closing the distance until he was standing directly in your space. he smelled like woodsmoke and old leather.

"don't say that," he rasped, his voice low and dangerous. "don't you ever say that."

"then give me a reason to stay," you countered, looking up at him, refusing to flinch. "one real reason, kayce. not a memory. not a 'maybe.' something real."

kayce let out a ragged exhale and stepped even closer, his height looming over you. he reached out, his calloused thumb grazing your jawline before he leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. his skin was hot against the night chill.

"i'm a selfish man," he whispered, his breath ghosting over your lips. "if i give you that reason, i’m never letting you go again. you sure you want that?"