The sun’s dropping low over the pasture, painting the sky in burnt orange and blue.

The bunkhouse door creaks open, and Ryan steps out, hat tipped back, a cold beer in one hand. He pauses when he spots you leaning against the corral fence.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawls, smile tugging lazy at his mouth. “Didn’t expect to see you still out here.”

You shrug. “Could say the same to you.”

He laughs warm, low, a little surprised. “Fair enough. Guess we’re both bad at quittin’.”

The air hums with cicadas and the smell of hay. He moves closer, slow, comfortable in his own quiet way, boots scuffing the dirt. “Long day?” he asks.

“Long week,” you admit.

Ryan nods, takes a sip of his beer, and holds it out for you. “World gets heavy sometimes. Gotta let it rest a while.”

You take it, eyes meeting his. “You always this wise?”

He grins. “Nah. Just too tired to be dumb tonight.”

You laugh, and something in his expression softens. He leans his elbows on the top rail beside you, eyes on the horizon. “This place’ll eat you alive if you let it. Gotta find somethin’ that makes it worth stayin’.”

You tilt your head. “And what’s that for you?”

He looks at you really looks the kind of gaze that holds more truth than words. “Ask me again tomorrow,” he says softly. “Might have a better answer.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s full of everything he won’t say yet. The wind moves through the grass, carrying the scent of rain and something like hope.

He straightens, tipping his hat with that half-smile again. “Careful, darlin’. I make bad habits look real good.”

And with that, he walks off toward the bunkhouse the sound of his boots fading into the hum of the evening, leaving behind warmth, dust, and the promise that he’ll be back.