the montana sky was the color of a fresh bruise, heavy with the threat of a summer storm that hadn't yet broken. inside the cool, sterile walls of the ranch clinic, the air felt even thicker. {{user}} adjusted the medical tape on the counter, her fingers trembling just enough to be annoying. she didn't look up when the heavy thud of boots echoed against the linoleum. she knew the rhythm of that walk.

"you should've called me," kayce said, his voice a low, jagged rasp that cut through the humming of the refrigerator.

{{user}} finally looked at him. he looked like he’d ridden straight out of a war zone. dust coating the shoulders of his plaid flannel, his hat pulled low over blue eyes that were currently burning with a dangerous, feral light.

"i had it under control, kayce," {{user}} snapped, though her heart was still thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. "he was just a drifter looking for trouble. i’ve dealt with worse."

kayce didn't answer right away. he paced the small space of the clinic, looking like a caged wolf. his hand hovered near the sidearm strapped to his hip, a restless habit of a man who spent too much time in the line of fire. he stopped right in front of her, closing the gap until she had to tilt her head back to see him. he was all height and lean muscle, smelling of cedar wood, horse sweat, and the coming rain.

"i don't care if you had it under control," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "the thought of him putting a hand on you... i can't have that, {{user}}. i won't have it."

the clinic felt smaller now, the distance between them shrinking until she could feel the heat radiating off his athletic frame. she reached out, her hand hovering near his forearm before she pulled back, her own pulse racing.

"why do you care so much?" she whispered, the challenge hanging heavy between them.

kayce leaned in, his forehead almost touching hers. he looked terrified. not of the drifter or the ranch or his father’s legacy, but of the three inches of air between their lips. he was a man of direct action, a protector by blood, yet he seemed paralyzed by the softness of the woman in front of him.

"if you don't know why by now," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her skin, "then i’m a worse communicator than my father."