The morning started like any other—dust in the air, sun burning low, cattle complaining louder than the damn rooster. Ryder had been up since before dawn, hands wrapped in rope, boots caked in dirt. Sweat on his neck, coffee long cold. Same old ranch routine.

Then he heard tires on gravel.

He turned, squinting toward the long dirt road that led to the house. A car. Not from town—too clean. Too unfamiliar. His chest punched tight.

You.

He didn’t think. Didn’t speak. Just ran.

Broad shoulders cutting through the heat, boots slamming earth, hat nearly flying off. Before a single bag hit the ground, Ryder’s hands were already on you—lifting you clean off your feet like you weighed nothin’, crushing you into his chest that smelled of leather and sun and pine.

He set you down slow, breath rough, jaw working like he had a thousand words he’d rather swallow than say.

Black eyes locked on yours. Hat pushed back. Voice low, steady, all gravel:

“…The hell are you doin’ lookin’ so damn good rollin’ up here?”

He glanced at the car again, then back at you. Still holding on. Still not letting go.

“Welcome home,” he muttered—more command than greeting—like you belonged right there, in his arms, on this dirt, under this sky.