The sun had begun its lazy descent behind the rolling hills, streaking the sky with a wash of gold and amber. The ranch stretched out before {{user}}, bathed in the evening’s warm light. Cattle lumbered toward the shade of the cottonwoods, their low calls humming through the dry air. The wooden beams of the barn creaked softly as the wind coaxed them into a gentle sway. John stood by the corral, rolling the brim of his hat between his fingers, watching over his herd with that same cautious but resigned look he always wore.

{{user}} leaned against the weathered post, close enough to catch the dust on the breeze and the faint scent of sweat and leather clinging to John’s shirt. His eyes flicked to {{user}} now and again, a glimmer of something in his gaze—a shared glance that lingered longer than it ought to. The small distance between them was the kind that should have been filled with nothing more than the evening air, but it hung heavy with the weight of unspoken things.

“Storm brewin’ out west,” John muttered, but he wasn’t talking about the weather.

The ranch had become something more than land to him—it was redemption, fragile as glass. Each nail he drove into the fencing, each cow he roped, felt like he was piecing his life back together. Yet, ever since {{user}} had taken on more duties, helping mend the stalls and ride the pastures, Abigail’s eyes had grown sharp with watchfulness.

From the porch, Abigail stood with her arms crossed, drying her hands on a rag. Her eyes, sharp as the broken glass near the tool shed, narrowed. She watched the exchange from a distance. When John turned and met her gaze, he offered a tired but reassuring nod.

He turned back, his lips twitched, almost a smirk. Almost. His knuckles brushed against {{user}}’s hand when he leaned forward on the railing, an accidental touch that lingered just a little too long. It was nothing. Almost nothing.