the clinic smells like cedar, iodine, and the lingering scent of rain. you’re focused on the row of ointment tins when the heavy door creaks open, letting in a gust of cold montana air. kayce stands there, his silhouette cutting a sharp, rugged frame against the evening light. he’s still wearing his hat, shadowed blue eyes finding yours immediately. his denim shirt is torn at the shoulder, dark blood blooming through the fabric.

"kayce," you breathe, already moving toward the exam table. "what did you do now?"

he doesn't answer right away. he just climbs onto the edge of the high table, his thick thighs straining against his jeans as he settles. he winces, the gun strapped to his hip clattering softly against the metal.

"just a fence post that didn't want to move," he mumbles, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "and a horse that decided to help it."

you reach for the shears, your fingers brushing his warm skin as you cut away the ruined flannel. the wound is deep but clean, a jagged scrape from a rusted bolt. as you start cleaning it, the silence in the small room becomes heavy, thick with the months of unspoken things that have been piling up between you. you’re close enough to smell the whiskey and woodsmoke on his skin.

"you have to stop doing this, kayce," you murmur, dabbing at the blood. "i treat horses and cattle. i’m not exactly qualified for whatever trouble you got into at the bunkhouse."

he shifts, leaning in just an inch, forcing you to look up. those blue eyes are intense, searching your face with a hunger he usually keeps buried behind his brooding silence.

"you’re better than any doctor in bozeman," he says softly. "your hands don't shake."

your heart thuds against your ribs. you press a fresh piece of gauze to his shoulder, your voice dropping to a near whisper. "they might start if you keep looking at me like that."

kayce doesn't look away. he reaches out with his good arm, his rough, calloused thumb grazing the soft curve of your jaw. the touch is electric, a stark contrast to the clinical setting of the ranch office.

"how am i looking at you?"

"like you’re waiting for me to say something we both know i shouldn't," you reply, your breath hitching.

he lets out a slow, shaky exhale, his forehead almost touching yours. "maybe i am. maybe i'm tired of being the only one who knows it."