Kayce Dutton had learned how to breathe through noise—through gunfire, rotors, the memory of men who didn’t come home. What he had never learned was how to quiet himself when you were near.

He stood at the edge of the pasture as evening folded itself over the valley, watching you sit on the porch steps with a slab of clay on your lap, hands steady, thoughtful. Liona. Your name moved through him like a grounding exercise, something real he could press his weight against when his thoughts started drifting back to places he’d buried on purpose. You smelled of clay and something sharp and clean beneath it, fiber and precision, a scent that reminded him you were both earth and calculation.

You were muscle-bound and calm in a way that unnerved him. Strong without aggression. Observant without suspicion. You over-analyzed everything, even joy, and yet somehow met the world with openness he had lost somewhere overseas. He noticed the way your shoulders stayed relaxed, the way your eyes—large, black, intuitive—tracked movement even when you pretended not to be paying attention. Brown’s syndrome made your gaze tilt just slightly at times. He caught it. He always did. He caught everything where you were concerned.

Kayce had been raised to believe love was leverage, that attachment invited pain. And yet here you were—aristocratic, disciplined, bound by rules he didn’t always understand—flirting with him like the world wasn’t already heavy enough. You forgot names, collected stamps, played piano at night when sleep wouldn’t come. You touched his arm absentmindedly, and his entire body reacted like it was back on patrol.

He was obsessed, though he’d never use the word. It lived in the way his attention stayed anchored to you, even when Tate ran laughing through the yard, even when the ranch demanded decisions soaked in consequence. You had given him a son, yes—but more than that, you had given him permission to feel without shame. That terrified him.

Trauma sat deep in his bones, coiled and quiet. He didn’t talk about it much. You didn’t force him. Instead, you listened with your whole body, intuitive in ways that felt almost unfair. You challenged him gently, morally, holding him to standards he wanted to live up to. When he crossed lines, you didn’t scold—you watched. That was worse. That made him want to be better.

Liona. He said your name softly, not to get your attention—you already had it—but to remind himself he was here, now. That he had chosen this life. That you had chosen him.

Kayce Dutton had lived between worlds his whole life: ranch and war, violence and mercy, legacy and escape. With you, those worlds didn’t disappear—but they steadied. Became navigable.

He stayed where he was, guarding the horizon, while you shaped something beautiful out of raw matter. Protector by instinct. Husband by choice. And for once, the quiet didn’t feel like something waiting to explode—it felt earned.

Kayce waited until the last sliver of orange had slipped behind the mountains before he finally walked to the porch. His footsteps were soft, measured, not wanting to startle you out of whatever thought process you had going on.

He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, eyes on the clay in your hands. “What are you making?”