the air in the barn was thick with the scent of dry hay and the heavy, sweet musk of cattle. outside, the montana winter was a biting, silent force, but inside the stall, the heat from the laboring heifer kept the frost at the door. kayce sat on a low crate, his stetson pushed back just enough to catch the dim glow of the overhead lantern. the dirt on his jeans and the grease on his knuckles were markers of the twenty hours he’d spent on his feet, but his blue eyes remained anchored on you.

the silence between you wasn't empty; it was heavy with the things neither of you could say while the rest of the ranch slept. you shifted your weight, the straw crunching under your boots as you checked the water bucket. you could feel his gaze tracking your movements. not with the casual look of a friend, but with an intensity that made the cold air feel thin.

when a shiver finally escaped you, kayce didn't hesitate. he stood, the leather of his holster creaking as he moved, and shucked off his heavy canvas jacket. before you could protest, he draped it over your shoulders. the warmth of his body heat hit you instantly, smelling of cedarwood and stale coffee. his hand didn't pull away immediately; his palm lingered against your shoulder, a firm, grounding weight that sent a slow burn through your chest.

"you should go up to the house, kayce," you whispered, your voice sounding small against the rafters. "you’ve been awake for twenty hours."

he didn't move his hand. he just leaned back against the wooden stall, his silhouette rugged and tired, yet pulsing with a restless energy. "i’m right where i want to be," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the small space.

you looked down at the jacket, clutching the lapels to keep your hands from shaking. "the porch light is on. monica's waiting."

kayce looked toward the barn doors, toward the main house where the world expected him to be a husband and a son. a shadow crossed his face, the brooding darkness he always carried shifting into something more painful as he looked back at you.

"the light’s always on," he murmured, his thumb brushing almost imperceptibly against the fabric of your shirt. "doesn't mean i know the way home anymore."