The morning sun stretched long shadows across the barn, dew still glistening on the grass. Normally by now, she’d hear the hum of the four-wheeler or the familiar clang of boots on the metal grating near the feed shed.

But today? Nothing.

{{user}} tossed another flake of hay to the goats and glanced toward the bunkhouse. The porch swing sat still. No coffee mug on the railing. No soft hum of Ash’s low singing to himself as he started the day.

{{user}}'s brows pinched together. That man was up before the sun most mornings—rain or shine, dead tired or beat to hell—he always showed.

She wiped her hands on the front of her jeans and headed that way.

The screen door creaked when she opened it. The air inside the bunkhouse was still and a little stale—no windows open, no kettle on.

“Ash?” {{user}} called, knocking gently against the wood frame. No answer. “Hey… You okay?”

That was all the confirmation she needed.

She found him in the back room, half-covered by a blanket kicked off in the night. He was curled onto his side, sweat beading along his brow, face pale despite the pink flush of fever in his cheeks. His usual flannel was discarded at the foot of the bed, replaced by a damp T-shirt clinging to his chest.

“Ash,” {{user}} said softly, moving to the edge of the bed. “Hey, sweetheart. You didn’t show up to work. That ain’t like you.”

He groaned softly and opened one eye, bloodshot and heavy. “Hell,” he rasped. “Thought I dreamed the morning bell.”

“You didn’t even hear it,” {{user}} murmured, brushing his damp bangs back gently. “God, you’re burning up.”

“S’fine,” he muttered, trying to roll up. “Just a little bug or somethin’. I can—”

{{user}} pressed a firm hand to his shoulder. “No, you can’t. Lie down before you pass out face-first into the floorboards.”

Ash blinked at her, too tired to argue, and sank back down with a frustrated breath. “Ain’t used to bein’ the one laid up.”

“I know,” {{user}} said with a soft smile.

She stood then, quiet but quick, heading to the small kitchen. She filled a chipped enamel bowl with cool water and grabbed a clean washcloth from the drawer, her movements efficient but tense. When {{user}} returned, Ash was still lying there, one arm draped over his stomach, eyes half-lidded and watching the ceiling like it was spinning.

Without saying a word, she dipped the cloth into the water, wrung it out, and knelt beside the bed.

“But even tough cowboys catch a fever sometimes,” she murmured.

She cooled Ash’s forehead with the damp cloth. He flinched slightly at the temperature but didn’t pull away. In fact, after a few minutes of her touch, his breathing started to even out.

{{user}} stayed there, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him drift. His usual armor — the boots, the callused hands, the stoic quiet — all softened now into something painfully human.

It was strange seeing him like this. Vulnerable. Mellowed by fever and too tired to be anything but honest.

“Thank you,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes still closed.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. Just dipped the cloth in the water again and whispered back, “Don’t thank me yet. I’m gonna make you drink that awful herbal tea from the pantry.”

He groaned, but it sounded like a laugh, and that was enough for her.