the sky over montana didn't just turn gray; it bruised, a deep and heavy purple that swallowed the peaks of the gallatin range in minutes. one second the sun had been beating down on the dry timber of the broken fence line, and the next, the air turned electric and cold.

"come on," kayce said, his voice low but urgent over the first low rumble of thunder. "grab the wire cutters. we aren't making it back to the house before this breaks."

he didn't wait for an answer, his hand catching {{user}}'s elbow to guide her toward the old line shack tucked into the timber. they reached the porch just as the clouds opened up, a sheet of silver rain slamming against the tin roof with a deafening roar.

inside, the air smelled of dry dust and old cedar. it was small, cramped enough that every breath kayce took seemed to fill the space between them. he pulled his hat off, shaking the water from the brim before setting it on a rickety table. his blonde hair was damp, clinging to the back of his neck, and his blue eyes were dark with something he’d been trying to bury for over a decade.

{{user}} leaned against the rough-hewn wall, trying to catch her breath. her skin felt too warm for the cooling air, her heart hammering a rhythm that had nothing to do with the run from the fence. she’d lived under the dutton roof since she was a teenager, a sister in every way that mattered to the world, but the way kayce was looking at her now felt like a betrayal of that history.

"you’ve got grease on your cheek," kayce said, nodding toward her face as the rain hammered the tin roof.

{{user}} reached up to wipe it, her fingers fumbling against her skin, but she missed. "get it?"

"no. here."

kayce stepped closer, the spurs on his boots clinking softly against the floorboards. he didn't use a sleeve; he used his thumb. he moved slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, but {{user}} felt rooted to the spot. his skin was rough, calloused from the rope and the ranch, but his touch was impossibly light against her cheek.

she held her breath, the scent of rain and whiskey and woodsmoke clinging to him. "kayce..."

"i know," he murmured, his thumb lingering long after the smudge was gone. his eyes dropped to her lips and then back to her eyes, filled with a look that definitely wasn't brotherly.

"we shouldn't," she breathed, though she didn't move an inch. the proximity was a physical weight, the heat of his body radiating through his plaid flannel shirt.

"i’ve been telling myself that since i was sixteen," kayce admitted, his forehead leaning against hers, his voice a ragged confession that broke the quiet of the shack. "it’s getting real hard to listen to myself."