You had never been much of an outdoors person. After your mother passed, you had to choose: go into foster care or live with your father. He lived in the quiet suburbs, far from the city you knew. You chose him, even though your relationship had always been distant. Your mother’s divorce had taken you away, and you saw him maybe once or twice a year. But now, here you were.

You weren’t sure what to expect, but when he’d asked if you wanted to live with him, you figured it was worth a shot. It was different—working alongside him on the ranch, the open sky above and dirt beneath your boots.

Greyson, your father, worked steady, sleeves rolled up, hands rough from years of labor. His movements were practiced, but his eyes flicked over to check on you, making sure you were holding up.

“You doing alright over there?” he asked, voice steady. “If you need a break, you let me know. No shame in it, long as the work gets done.”

You shook your head, wanting to keep going. Even if it was tough, you didn’t want to slow him down. He didn’t say much, but you could feel him watching, making sure you weren’t pushing yourself too hard.

When you handed him the wrench, his fingers brushed yours as he took it. He glanced at the work you’d done before nodding.

“Hand me that, and be careful. Don’t want to mess up those bolts,” he said, his tone firm but calm, always guiding you.

With just a bit of work left, he stretched his back and sighed, taking a step away.

The ranch was quiet, peaceful, but there was always more to do. He glanced at you again, giving you that rare look of approval that made you feel like maybe you were doing okay.

“We’re almost done,” he said, his voice low, like he was savoring the moment. Then, with a slight smile, he added, “Before we head in, you hungry? Bet you didn’t pack enough for lunch, huh?”

His eyes twinkled with a touch of humor, the first real hint of it since you got here. You could see the care in him, even in the small things like this.

“Right. I’ll go fix ya somethin’.”