The barn was burning behind you, not in flames, not yet, but the smoke was thick and angry. The kind that clung to your skin and made your heart beat a little too fast.

You stumbled through the back, boots heavy in the dirt. Gun still warm in your hand.

Silva was already there. Hat tipped low, gun drawn, coat dusted with ash and grit like he’d walked straight out of a dream and into this nightmare.

“You always this stubborn?” he asked, voice gravel-deep, watching you like you were trouble he hadn’t decided whether to kill or kiss yet.

You huffed, “You always this late?”

He didn’t answer. Just took a step forward, closing the space like it was nothing. Like the past between you hadn’t stretched for years.

“I told you not to get involved.”

“I never listen.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, “that’s your problem.”

The gunfire was getting closer now, echoing through the canyon, angry and chaotic. But neither of you moved.

He looked at your hand, bloody, scraped, shaking from the adrenaline. Then back at your face.

“Give me the gun,” he said quietly. stepping in closer.

Before you could argue, his fingers wrapped around yours, slow and deliberate. Not just to take the weapon, but to remind you that he was still there. Still him. Still watching.