the rain hammers against the metal roof of the small clinic on the dutton ranch, a rhythmic, lonely sound that matches the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights overhead. it’s well past midnight when the heavy wooden door creaks open, letting in a gust of cold montana air and the scent of damp earth and pine.

kayce stands in the threshold, his cowboy hat tilted low, dripping water onto the linoleum floor. he looks haggard, his blue eyes bloodshot and weary as they find you sitting at the desk. his plaid flannel shirt is torn at the shoulder, stained a dark, sluggish crimson that makes your heart skip a beat.

"i told you two days ago this needed stitches, kayce. you’re stubborn even for a dutton," you say, your voice steady despite the way your chest tightens. you stand up, your movements practiced and calm, though the sight of him always makes the air feel a little thinner.

he doesn't say anything at first, just follows you to the exam table with a slow, heavy gait. he winces as he pulls the damp fabric away from his skin, revealing a jagged cut along his bicep. the kind of messy injury that comes from a run-in with a rusted fence line.

"just didn’t want to bother you," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates right through you. "you’ve got enough on your plate with my father and the boys."

you reach for the antiseptic and a needle, the familiar sting of the clinical scent filling the space between you. as you lean in close to work, the heat radiating off his body is a stark contrast to the chill of the storm outside. you can feel his gaze tracking every movement of your hands, intense and unblinking.

"you’re never a bother," you say softly, pausing to look up. your faces are inches apart now, close enough that you can see the golden flecks in his eyes and the slight tremble in his jaw. "you should know that by now."

kayce reaches out with his good hand, his fingers grazing the fabric of your scrub top, his touch hesitant yet searing. the brooding weight of his expression softens for a fraction of a second, a flicker of something raw and unspoken passing between you in the dim light.

"maybe i just like the way you look when you're mad at me," he whispers, his voice dropping even lower.