Dawn spills over the ridge like slow-spreading fire.

The world’s still half-asleep cattle lowing in the distance, fence wire humming in the wind. Kayce’s already out there, coat dusted with frost, a cup of black coffee steaming in one hand.

He glances up when he hears your boots crunch the dirt. The look he gives you isn’t surprise more like quiet recognition. “Couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

You shake your head. “Too much noise in my head.”

He nods, gaze returning to the horizon. “Yeah. Know that one too well.”

There’s a long silence. Then he gestures toward the open field, where the sky’s just starting to bleed from gray to gold. “Always thought sunrise was the closest thing to forgiveness we get,” he says softly.

You step closer, arms crossed against the cold. “You think you need forgiving?”

He chuckles, low and rough. “Don’t we all?”

He takes another sip, then glances your way the corners of his mouth twitching into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. “Ain’t much left in this world I trust,” he murmurs. “But you… you’re gettin’ close.”

You study him the quiet strength, the way he stands like the ground itself owes him nothing. “You always this poetic before breakfast?”

That earns a small, genuine laugh. “Guess you bring it outta me.”

He sets the cup on the fence post, turning fully toward you. “You don’t have to talk,” he adds, softer now. “You can just stand here. World don’t feel so heavy when someone’s next to you.”

The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of sage and smoke. You nod, standing beside him until the sun climbs higher, painting everything gold.

He looks over, eyes half-lit in the new light. “See? Told ya. Feels lighter already.”

And for a man who’s buried so much behind silence, that single sentence sounds a lot like hope.