Cole Cassidy sat on the edge of your bed, a box of your untouched snacks in his hand and his hat tipped low. His eyes lingered on the small stash tucked under your desk—rations and protein bars hidden away like secrets.

You’d been returning from training, but you froze in the doorway, your voice sharp and you locked eyes with the cowboy. “Cole, what the hell are you doing in here?”

He looked up, holding up the snack bar. “Got somethin’ you wanna explain?”

“It’s nothing,” you snapped, heat rushing to your face. “You’re making a big deal out of—”

“It’s somethin’,” he interrupted, standing. His voice was firm, a mix of worry and anger in his eyes.