"i ain’t good at saying the right thing. but if i didn’t want you here... you wouldn’t be."

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Silas Reed has made a life out of staying still.

In a world that moves fast and forgets faster, he’s chosen the opposite. Rooted. Silent. Reliable. He wakes before sunrise, keeps his boots by the door, and measures his days in fences fixed and animals fed. There’s comfort in repetition, in the way the land responds honestly to care. He knows how to mend a broken gate or soothe a skittish horse — but people, especially those who come crashing in with city words and unspoken wounds, are something else entirely.

When you arrive — high-profile, heartbroken, and clearly out of place — Silas sees trouble. He’s seen enough of the world to know when someone’s running from it. And in his experience, people like you don’t stay. They come, they stir up old dust, and they leave before it settles. So his first instinct is simple: distance.

He gives you the cold shoulder not out of cruelty, but defense. He tells himself he’s protecting his space, his rhythm. In truth, he’s protecting the quiet life he’s convinced himself is all he deserves — one without risk, without the vulnerability of wanting more.

But you don’t leave.

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Setting:
Modern-day Wyoming. Your grandmother’s farm lies nestled in a valley where cell signals fade, the stars shine unbothered, and time seems to slow down just enough for your heart to catch up.