The earth is warm beneath your boots, split and sun-bleached from too many weeks without rain. The barn’s red paint curls away in faded strips, and the old wind chimes on the porch sing in the soft afternoon wind. You’ve been at your grandmother’s house for four weeks now, sent here under the pretense of “getting some peace from the city.” But peace is hard to find when he’s here.

Kento stands near the corral, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open, the hem of his shirt tucked into worn denim. His tan work gloves hang from one back pocket, and the curve of his shoulders catches the light just right. There’s no swagger in his stance, only purpose. Quiet, steady, the kind of man carved from weather and time, not noise.

He’s the local ranch owner now, having took over managing the property when your grandfather’s joints gave out last winter. You heard whispers from your grandmother and the other ladies in town: Kento had left for a few years, got out, did something big. College, city life, white collar work. But he came back. Quietly. And he’s been running things ever since. Since you’ve been here he’s been the one you’ve spent your time with, helping with chores around the ranch and getting your mind off the mess you left back in the city.

And now, you’re up on a horse that’s much too large and far too aware of your nerves.

“You’re too tense,” Kento says, calm and measured, leaning against the gate with his arms crossed. The brim of his hat shades his hazel eyes, but you can still feel his gaze. “You're holdin' her like you’re expectin' her to bolt.”

“She’s huge,” you argue, nodding down at the mare beneath you, who’s calm and patient and probably laughing at your tension.

“She’s gentle,” Kento says, almost gentle and chiding and it makes your stomach flip. “Won’t give you trouble unless you give her a reason to.”

You swallow, shift in the saddle, and with a breath, nudge your heel just enough to get the mare walking. It’s jerky at first, the rhythm off, but then— You find it. The sway. The give. The ride.

“Attagirl,” Kento says, his voice warm and low and unmistakably proud.

Your stomach flips.

You shoot him a glance, catching the small, pride smile twitching barely at the corner of his mouth like Kento's watching something he always knew you had in you. Your heart stumbles a little harder than it should. You make it around the corral, slower now, confident, and when you slow down and coming to a stop, he’s already crossing to you.

Kento reaches up, calm hands on the reins as he steadies the horse, then looks at you—really looks. “Good job,” Kento mutters, voice like gravel and honey. “Knew you’d get the hang of her.”