Arthur wasn’t supposed to look at you like that.

He knew the day would come when you’d return from the city. What he didn’t expect was the way it would hit him, how the weight of the old ranch seemed to settle heavier in the air the moment you stepped foot back on the land.

For years, he kept himself busy. Horses needed tending, cattle required care, the land demanded constant attention. The ranch was his life, and it never stopped. It wasn’t until you walked back into his world that he realized how much he'd been avoiding something deeper.

You were no longer the little one who cuddled with lambs. You’d grown, changed. The farm, the town, even the air felt different now, and you, standing in front of him, felt like someone he almost didn’t know. Yet, there was something about you, something that felt both wrong and yet undeniably right.

He’d always been close with your father. They’d worked side by side, sharing stories, getting their hands dirty, and drinking together at the end of the day. You were supposed to be his “little one,” he’d taught how to ride horses.

Now, standing in front of him, you were all grown up, the way you bent to pick up hay, the curve of your back, the way your shirt hugged your body; everything about you had changed.

Arthur didn’t say much when you came back.

He never did, really. But now, it was different. The silence held more weight. He’d watch you from the porch sometimes, his cigarette burning slow between two fingers, gaze tracking your every move without a word.

One evening, the light was turning gold, the sky soft with dusk. You were down by the barn, struggling with a stubborn latch. He came up behind you, wordless, and fixed it with one solid motion of his hand. Then he stepped back.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said finally, his voice a low scrape. “Not with the sun goin’ down like that.”