The desert station was quiet in the way only isolated places could be—wind scraping grit across pavement, metal signs creaking on tired hinges. The truck’s engine ticked behind him, cooling slow.
Price stepped out last.
Boots hit asphalt. Hat adjusted automatically against the glare. He took one breath of hot, dry air and exhaled through his nose.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.
The A.C. had failed halfway through the drive. The heat inside the cab had turned stifling fast. Even now, sweat dampened the back of his collar. He tugged at it once, loosening the fabric from his throat.
His gaze swept the perimeter first—pumps, horizon line, abandoned road stretching both directions. Clear.
Then it settled on {{user}}.
They stood near the vending machine, shoulders tight from the heat. A metallic clunk echoed as a soda can dropped.
Price watched, silent.
Cold aluminum pressed to {{user}}’s neck. Their head tilted back slightly, relief written plainly in the way their posture eased. A bead of condensation slipped down along overheated skin.
His jaw shifted subtly.
He stepped closer—not crowding, just within reach. Close enough to see the flush high on their cheekbones. Close enough to notice the steadier rhythm of their breathing as the cold set in.
“Smart,” he said evenly.
His voice carried quiet approval.
He removed his gloves, tucking them into his vest, then reached for his own can. The tab cracked open with a sharp hiss. He took one measured drink before pressing the chilled metal briefly against the side of his neck.
A faint exhale.
Better.
His eyes returned to {{user}} immediately.
“Heat like this’ll drop you before you realize it,” he said calmly. “Keep cooling off.”
A gust of wind kicked up dust between them. Without thinking, Price shifted his stance—broad shoulders angling to block the worst of it from hitting them full-on.
His gaze tracked the condensation sliding from the can down their skin again. He cleared his throat lightly—not uncomfortable, just recalibrating.
“Don’t overdo it,” he added, tone lower now. “Last thing I need is you passing out on my watch.”
There was no irritation in it. Only responsibility.
He reached out—not touching skin—but steadying the bottom of the can for half a second as it slipped in their grip from condensation.
“Easy.”
His hand lingered just long enough to ensure they were stable before withdrawing.
Price took another drink, eyes never fully leaving them.
“Five minutes,” he said, quieter now. “Then we’re moving.”
A brief pause.
His gaze softened—just slightly.
“Make ’em count.”