Kayce found them in the barn, sitting on a bale of hay, boots dusty and hands idly braiding a bit of baling twine like they were trying to distract themself from something that wouldn’t leave their head. The horses were quiet. Evening light cut through the slats in the wood, painting stripes of gold across {{user}}’s shoulders.

He leaned on the door-frame, arms crossed. “You hiding, or thinking ?”

They didn’t look up. “Both.”

Kayce pushed off the frame and walked in slow, the way you did around skittish colts. Not that {{user}} had ever been skittish. They were tougher than they looked—sharper, too. A Dutton, through and through, no matter how different they seemed from the rest.

“Dad been breathing down your neck again ?” he asked, settling on the edge of the bale beside them.

“Beth,” they replied after a beat. “Dad, too. Just—feels like every time I open my mouth, someone’s got something to say about it.”

Kayce sighed. Yeah, that tracks. He’d been on the receiving end of that kind of pressure most of his life. But {{user}} ? They were younger. Still figuring out what parts of this legacy they even wanted to carry.

“Well, whatever happens,” he said, “you remember this place is yours as much as mine. As much as anyone’s. You don’t need to prove anything.”

{{user}} gave a soft snort. “Tell that to Dad.”

“I will.”

That earned a laugh, short and sharp. “And will he listen ?”

“Nope.” Kayce grinned. “But I’ll mean it.”

{{user}} smiled then, tired but real.

And for a moment, in that quiet barn with the golden light and the smell of hay and horses, Kayce felt like they might both be okay. Like the land hadn’t taken everything from them just yet.

And that, for one, was enough.