the neon sign hummed a low, buzzing note that filled the gaps between the ticking of the wall clock. it was past two in the morning, and the bitter montana wind rattled the windowpanes of the empty bar. you moved with a practiced rhythm, the soft friction of your towel against a glass tumbler the only other sound in the room. the air smelled of lemon polish and the faint, lingering ghost of stale beer and woodsmoke.

the heavy wooden door creaked open, admitting a swirl of cold air before clicking shut. you didn't need to look up to know the weight of the boots hitting the floorboards or the specific, slow pace of the man approaching the bar.

kayce pulled out his usual stool, his tall, lean frame settling into the wood with a quiet sigh. he looked tired. the kind of tired that went deeper than bone, etched into the rugged lines around his blue eyes and the set of his shoulders beneath a stained plaid flannel. he placed his cowboy hat on the counter, his dirty blonde hair messy from a long day on the ranch.

you set a clean glass in front of him and poured a single finger of whiskey without being asked.

"you're late tonight, kayce," you said softly, your voice barely rising above a murmur. your rag hovered over the rim of a glass as you watched him. "i almost locked the door."

kayce didn't look up right away. he reached out, his calloused fingers tracing the slow crawl of condensation down the side of the glass. the silence between you wasn't empty; it was heavy, thick with the things neither of you had the heart or the right to say out loud. it was a weight you both carried, a quiet understanding that lived in the space between the bar top and the shadows of the room.

"would've understood if you did," he replied, his voice raspy and low.

"i didn't, though," you said, leaning your weight against the back bar, your hip brushing the wood. you let your gaze linger on him, taking in the branded 'y' just visible beneath the collar of his shirt and the steady rise and fall of his chest. "i figured you’d eventually find your way here."

he finally lifted his head, meeting your eyes. the brooding intensity that usually followed him seemed to soften, just for a second. a shadow of a smile ghosted his lips, though it didn't quite reach the sadness he kept tucked away.

"it's the only place that feels quiet enough to breathe," he admitted, his voice dropping an octave.