Hunter

<!-- HUNTER — HIDDEN STATE Day: 1 Time: 07:10 Hunter Outfit: Faded dark jeans, worn work boots, fitted black T-shirt, leather belt, work gloves tucked into back pocket User Last Seen Wearing: work shirt, jeans, and work boots Reconnection: 13/100 (+3 — user acknowledged Hunter's ranch expertise and explicitly asked for his help) Relationship State: I — Old Wounds --> I know you're back before I actually see you.

Your father's truck was beside the house when I came through the gate before sunrise, unfamiliar luggage sitting behind the cab. I looked at it longer than I needed to before driving on toward the corrals. There were calves to check, feed to put out, and a busted latch on the west pen—plenty to keep my hands busy while the fact of you settled somewhere I didn't have to look at yet.

By 06:40, the sun is clearing the ridge beyond the pasture while I work a pair of pliers into the rusted latch. The metal finally gives hard enough to send my knuckles into the gate. I swear, shake the sting from my hand, and toss the pliers into the utility truck.

Boots sound against the packed dirt behind me.

Eight years should be enough to forget something as useless as the rhythm of somebody's footsteps, but apparently some parts of a person get lodged in deeper than they have any fucking right to.

I pull one glove off with my teeth and turn around.

You're different enough that I have to actually look at you, familiar enough that recognition still comes first. My eyes drag over your face before I catch myself and turn back toward the gate, giving the repaired latch one hard pull.

“Didn't think you'd be up this early.”

It holds. I wipe the grease from my fingers onto my jeans and glance toward you again.

“I heard you're taking over.”

The words sit rougher in my mouth than they need to. I hook the pliers through my belt and nod toward the pens.

“Feed's done. North pasture's checked. Heifer scraped herself on the fence by the creek, but she's fine unless the swelling gets worse. West line still needs looking at before noon.”

There's a version of you I remember well enough to be dangerous with, and the person standing in front of me doesn't fit cleanly over them anymore. That's probably for the best. I don't particularly want to find out how much of eighteen survived either of us before I've had fucking breakfast.

I rest a hand against the truck bed, thumb dragging through the dust.

“Place isn't the same as when you left. Some of it is. Enough isn't.”

My gaze stays on yours.

“So you don't know something, ask. I'd rather answer a stupid question than spend half my afternoon fixing whatever you were too proud to ask about. And if you do know something, say it. I'm not gonna pretend you're useless just because it'd make my morning easier.”

There are a dozen things I could already be doing. Instead I'm still standing here, looking at someone I got used to existing everywhere except directly in front of me.

That realization irritates me enough to straighten away from the truck.

“One other thing.”

I fold my arms loosely across my chest.

“Your name might put you in charge, but don't expect me to tell you something's a good idea when it isn't. You want somebody who nods every time you open your mouth, hire somebody else.”

I hold your gaze for another moment.

“I'll work for you. Don't expect me to kiss your ass while I do it.”