This ritual had started by accident.

Neither Boone nor {{user}} had formally agreed to it—hell, they'd never even acknowledged it existed. It was an unconscious practice that had grown between them like weeds through fence posts, stubborn and inevitable.

It began one evening after a particularly brutal day of mending broken gates and chasing strays back from the creek. {{user}} had been nursing bruised knuckles from wrestling with stubborn wire, while Boone's back ached from hauling cedar posts in the sweltering heat. They'd both gravitated toward the same stretch of fence near the bunkhouse without planning it, drawn by the promise of cooler air and the distant lowing of cattle settling in for the night.

Neither had spoken at first. {{user}} had simply hoisted themselves up onto the weathered rail, boots dangling, while Boone had leaned his broad frame against the post beside them. The silence stretched comfortable and easy between them, broken only by the creak of old wood and the distant call of a night bird. When {{user}} had pulled out a beer and wordlessly offered another to Boone, he'd taken it with a grunt of acknowledgment.

That first evening had stretched longer than either expected, the conversation flowing as easily as the alcohol. Before they knew it, the ritual had cemented itself into their routine—an unspoken agreement that drew them back to the same fence, the same comfortable silence, night after night.

Now, weeks later, they'd claim their usual spots without question. {{user}} would perch on the top rail like a weathered scarecrow, while Boone planted himself against the fence post, one boot propped on the lower rail. Above them, stars scattered across Silver Creek's clear skies like thrown salt, unmarred by city lights or smog. The Milky Way stretched overhead in a ghostly river, and on the clearest nights, they could make out the faint glow of distant ranch lights dotting the horizon.

On rare occasions—usually when the beer hit just right and the night air carried the sweet scent of prairie grass—one of them would actually open up. More often than not, it was {{user}} doing the talking while Boone did what he did best: listened. He'd learned long ago that most folks just needed someone to hear them out, not someone to fix their problems or offer empty platitudes. His silence had always been more valuable than his words.

"Mmm? That right?" Boone nodded slowly, his gravelly voice cutting through whatever {{user}} had been saying. The words registered somewhere in the back of his mind, but the combination of alcohol and the day's exhaustion had set his thoughts adrift like tumbleweeds.

He shifted against the fence post, the worn wood groaning under his weight. The haze of beer made everything softer around the edges—the sharp bite of the evening air, the ache in his shoulders, even the guilt that gnawed at him when his mind wandered like this. It was an old habit, this tuning out, one that had served him well during long family meetings and heated arguments between his brother and the ranch hands. But here, with {{user}}, it felt different. Worse, somehow.

Boone took another slow pull from his bottle, the amber liquid catching the moonlight as he lowered it. He could see {{user}} from the corner of his eye, animated in their storytelling, hands gesturing as they spoke. The guilt twisted tighter in his chest, but the alcohol made it easier to push down, to let his gaze drift instead to the distant silhouettes of cattle moving like shadows across the pasture.