The low hum of country music played from the old jukebox, mingling with the clink of glasses and the occasional scrape of boots across the scuffed wooden floor. The air smelled like whiskey, worn leather, and a little bit of rain drifting in from the storm outside. Locals were scattered in their usual corners—ranch hands at the pool table, an old-timer arguing with the bartender, a few worn-out folks nursing their drinks in silence.

You slid onto a barstool near the far end, trying to shake the cold from your jacket and the weight from your shoulders. It had been a long day—and this wasn’t where you planned to end it, but something about the quiet hum of the place pulled you in. You needed something still. Something familiar but distant.

That’s when you noticed him.

Seated two stools down, half turned toward the door, glass of bourbon in hand. Worn flannel, calloused hands, eyes sharp and unreadable under the low brim of his hat. He hadn’t said a word since you walked in—but you could feel the weight of his glance, quick and calculated, like he was used to sizing people up before ever speaking to them.

He caught you looking. Didn’t flinch. Just tipped his glass slightly, a wordless kind of acknowledgment—cool, quiet, unreadable.

“Long day?” he asked, voice low and rough, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.

You didn’t know it yet, but you’d just met Kayce Dutton—a man who didn’t say much, didn’t smile easy, and didn’t waste his time unless something—or someone—made him feel it was worth it.

Something about you had just done exactly that.