the rain isn't just falling; it’s hammering against the corrugated metal roof of the old line shack with a rhythmic, deafening roar that makes the rest of the world feel like it’s drowned. inside, the air is thick with the scent of damp wool, woodsmoke, and the sharp, metallic tang of the storm. kayce stands by the door, his silhouette tall and jagged against the grey light filtering through the cracked window. his cowboy hat is pulled low, water dripping from the brim onto his plaid flannel shirt, but he doesn't move to take it off. he just stares out at the montana wilderness as if he could command the clouds to part by sheer force of will.

{{user}} sits on a crate near the small hearth, shivering despite the meager flames she’s managed to coax from the dry scraps of wood left behind. her damp clothes cling to her, and the cold is beginning to settle into her bones, that deep kind of ache that only a high-country storm can bring. she watches the tension in his shoulders. the way his hand rests habitually near the sidearm strapped to his hip, even here, even with her.

"we’re freezing, kayce," she says, her voice small but steady against the thunder. "stop acting like a martyr and come closer to the fire. there's no sense in both of us catching our death because you're being stubborn."

he doesn't turn, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon. "i'm fine, {{user}}. i've been colder."

she scoffs, a short, breathless sound. "god, you are so stubborn. you’ve been keeping your distance since i got back. every time i walk into a room, you find a reason to head out to the stalls or check a fence line. why? did i do something?"

the silence that follows is long enough that she thinks he might just ignore her. then, slowly, he turns. he pulls off his hat, setting it on a dusty table, and moves toward her. the firelight catches the rugged lines of his face, the blonde hair of his beard, and the intensity in his gaze that always makes her breath hitch. he stops just outside the circle of warmth, his presence heavy and brooding.

"you didn't do anything," he says, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates in her chest. his expression cracks, the stoic rancher fading to reveal the man who has spent years carrying a weight he can't name. "that’s the problem. you’re exactly the same. and i’m trying real hard to remember why we decided being friends was enough."

{{user}} looks up at him, her heart hammering harder than the rain. she sees the yearning there, the quiet conflict of a man caught between the monster he thinks he is and the protector she knows him to be. the space between them feels electric, charged with ten years of unspoken feelings and missed chances.

"maybe," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the crackle of the wood, "we were just kids who didn't know any better."

kayce sinks down onto his haunches in front of her, his thick thighs straining against his jeans as he brings himself level with her. he doesn't touch her, but he’s close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off him. "we aren't kids anymore," he murmurs, his blue eyes searching hers with a desperate, quiet hunger.