the montana air was crisp, the kind of morning where the dew still clung to the tall grass of the mccarthy ranch. steve stood by the heavy oak table in the kitchen, the scent of strong coffee and fried bacon filling the room. he looked every bit the part of the man who ran this land. his flannel sleeves were rolled up over thick, scarred forearms, and his salt and pepper beard was neatly trimmed against his strong jaw.

he heard the soft padding of feet and didn't need to turn around to know it was you. when you finally leaned against the doorframe, still soft with sleep, he set his mug down. his brown eyes tracked over you, taking in every curve of your frame with a steady, possessive heat that never seemed to fade, even after two years.

"morning, kitten," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly from the cigarettes and the early hour. he gestured to the chair beside him. "sit down and eat. i made enough to keep you full through the afternoon."

you moved toward him, feeling the familiar gravity he pulled you in with. as you got close, his rough hand reached out, fingers grazing your hip before he tugged you into his space. he was tall, towering over you even without his boots on, and the sheer mass of him felt like a fortress.

"thank you," you murmured, looking up at him.

he tilted your chin up with a blunt thumb, his gaze narrowing slightly in that way that made your heart skip. he was a stoic man, a man of the church and the land, but behind closed doors, his dominance was the anchor you craved.

"you’re gonna stay close to the house today," he said, it wasn't a question. it was an order wrapped in the protective tone he always used. "i’ve got hands moving cattle near the north fence, and i don't want you out there alone. you hear me?"