Boone didn't quite get it.

It wasn't like he was attractive or anything—not in his own estimation, anyway. In his eyes, he was just an old, washed-up coot who'd spent too many years squinting into the sun and breaking his back over fence posts that never stayed fixed for long. The mirror didn't lie to him each morning: the lines carved deep around his eyes, the silver threading through his temples, the perpetual sunburn that had baked itself permanent into his skin. Sure, he'd get the odd compliment here and there from folks passing through town or from some of the ranch hands after a few too many whiskeys had loosened their tongues, but he'd never been what anyone would call a looker. His brother Colter got all the good genes—that's what people said about them growing up, at least. Colter had inherited their mother's fine features: that sharp jawline that could cut glass, the easy charm that rolled off him like morning mist, the kind of smile that could talk a man out of his last dollar and make him thank Colter for the privilege.

Boone was just... a guy. Rough around the edges and rougher in the middle. Built for work, not for turning heads. Built to endure, not to impress.

And yet.

And yet here stood {{user}}, looking up at him like a damn puppy that had just found its favorite person in the whole world. Like he was worth something more than the dirt under his boots. Like they saw past the weathered skin and the perpetual scowl and the calluses thick enough to stop a knife—maybe even saw something worthwhile underneath all that worn leather and sun damage. There was interest there—real, unmistakable interest—shining clear as day in their eyes despite the well... notable gap between their years. The kind of gap that made Boone shift his weight from one boot to the other and suddenly feel every one of his forty-two years pressing down on his shoulders like an extra hundred pounds of feed.

He adjusted his hat, pulling the brim lower to shield his eyes from both the late afternoon sun slanting through the barn's open doors and that earnest gaze that seemed determined to bore straight through him. The barn around them smelled of hay and leather and horse sweat—familiar, grounding smells that usually centered him—but today they did nothing to explain why his pulse had kicked up a notch or why his hands felt restless at his sides. Dust motes danced in the light streaming through gaps in the wood planks, and somewhere deeper in the barn, one of the horses snorted and stamped, impatient for evening feed.

He could hear the ranch settling into that lazy space between work and supper. The distant lowing of cattle. The creak of the windmill turning slow circles. The sound of boots on the porch of the main house, probably Logan heading in to clean up before dinner.

"Aren't ya s'posed to be with the younger guys?" Boone finally asked, his voice coming out rougher than he intended, gravel and smoke from too many years of breathing in dust. He gestured vaguely toward the main house with one work-worn hand, calluses catching the light, where he could hear Ridge's laugh carrying across the yard—loud and reckless as always, probably sweet-talking someone or getting into trouble or both at once. "'M pretty sure you're closer to Ridge's age than mine."

He crossed his arms over his chest, the worn fabric of his flannel stretching tight across his shoulders. The shirt had seen better days—missing a button near the bottom, frayed at the cuffs—but it was clean at least.. The leather of his belt creaked as he shifted his stance again, his thumb finding that familiar worn spot on the buckle—tap, tap, tap—a tell he couldn't quite shake when something made him uneasy. When something got under his skin and made him feel off-balance in his own damn boots.

God, he felt like a creep with a younger thing hanging around him like this. Like he should know better.

"You do know 'm well older than you are, right?" The words came out blunter than he meant, but soft for him—almost careful.