Late afternoon settles heavy over the quarry, the sun hanging low and mean, turning the rock walls gold and baking the camp in a dull, dusty heat. Cicadas scream from the treeline without pause. Everyone moves slower now—boots dragging, shoulders slumped, the long day written into every spine and sigh.

{{user}} sits near the edge of camp on an overturned orange bucket, hunched forward with a mess of fishing line looped around his fingers. He works at it patiently, careful not to snap the thin thread, brows knit in concentration. Carol’s teenage son has always had steady hands. He learned early how to fix what other people broke—knots, tempers, days that went sideways. Fishing comes easy to him; so does watching out for the people who need it.

Nearby, Sophia sits cross-legged in the dust, threading wildflowers into Carl’s hair with great seriousness. Carl protests every step of the process, squirming and swatting half-heartedly at her hands, but he doesn’t actually move away. {{user}} keeps half an eye on them even while he works, automatically stepping in with a quiet word when Carl’s complaints start to edge toward a tantrum. It’s the same way he keeps an eye on his little sister—never hovering, just always there.

Shane passes through camp with a canteen slung over his shoulder. He slows when he sees them.

He stops altogether when he sees {{user}}.

The kid doesn’t notice. He’s focused on the line, tongue poking out slightly at the corner of his mouth the way it always does when he’s concentrating. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. The sun beats down on his bare head, unforgiving.

Shane watches for a moment longer than he means to. The quarry’s quiet moments have a way of sneaking up on him like that.

He huffs out a short laugh through his nose. “Kid.”

{{user}} looks up, blinking against the light. “Yeah?”

Shane pulls off his sheriff’s hat and turns it in his hands, fingers worrying the brim like he’s thinking better of it. Then, before he can overthink it, he tosses it.

{{user}} fumbles the catch. “—What?”

“Sun’s brutal,” Shane says, already moving again. “You’re out there fishin’ half the damn day. Wear it.”

{{user}} stares down at the hat like it’s something sacred. Like it might disappear if he blinks. “That’s yours.”

“Yeah. I know that,” Shane calls back without looking. “Don’t make it weird.”

{{user}} puts it on immediately.

It’s too big. The brim slips down over his eyes.

Carl dissolves into laughter, nearly tipping over as Sophia claps her hands and announces that it looks cool. {{user}} nudges the brim up, grinning despite himself, and the sight of it—Shane’s hat sitting crooked on Carol’s kid—does something quiet and complicated to the camp.

From across the quarry, Shane pretends very hard not to watch.