the montana sky is a bruised purple, heavy with the weight of a storm that hasn't broken yet. the air smells of crushed grass and the metallic tang of wire. you stand on the dusty edge of the fence line, watching kayce work. his movements are rhythmic, driven by a quiet, focused aggression that makes the muscles in his back ripple beneath the sweat-stained plaid of his flannel shirt.

he’s taller than you remember, or maybe he just feels more solid, a permanent fixture of these hills while you’ve been a ghost. he doesn’t look up when you step closer, his focus fixed on the jagged break in the cedar post. the silence between you isn't the easy. it’s thick and suffocating, like the heat before the rain.

you reach into the heavy canvas tool bag, your hand finding the wire strainers. when you hold them out, your fingers brush against his calloused palm. the contact is brief, hardly a second, but it feels like an electric current. you both pull back too quickly, the sudden movement loud in the quiet of the range.

"you’ve gotten quieter," you say, your voice sounding small against the vastness of the valley. "i didn't think that was possible."

kayce doesn't stop. he takes the tool, his jaw set tight behind the scruff of his blonde beard. "not much worth saying lately," he grunts, his blue eyes fixed on the wire. "just work. same hills, different day."

you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling the familiar weight of your own body, the way you always felt a little too much for this place and yet, never enough for him to keep. "you didn't write back," you say, the words coming out sharper than you intended. "not once. i sent four letters that first year. i waited for the mail every morning, kayce."

he hammers a staple into the post with a sudden, violent force, the sound echoing off the distant peaks. he stops then, his chest heaving under the weight of his breathing. he doesn't look at you, but his hand drifts unconsciously toward his chest, near the spot where you know the 'y' is burned into his skin.

"i read 'em," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "read every word until the paper started to thin out."

"then why didn't you--"

he snaps his head toward you, his expression raw and guarded, his eyes burning with a yearning he can't quite hide. "because if i started talking to you, i wouldn't have been able to stay here," he interrupts, his voice cracking just enough to show the monster and the man fighting underneath. "and i had to stay. you know why."