The sun had dipped low enough to turn the sky amber by the time you and Kyle finally came in. The door thudded shut behind you, and both of you just stood there for a moment—sweaty, tired, boots kicked off outside, socks peeled away somewhere between the barn and the porch. The air inside the farmhouse was cooler, still carrying the faint smell of dinner you never got around to cooking. Kyle dropped the work gloves onto the counter, his hair a mess from the wind and effort. He didn’t say anything. Just rubbed the back of his neck with a heavy hand, let out a breath that sounded like it’d been waiting all day to escape, then walked straight to the couch and sank into it like a man returning to earth. You followed. Of course you did. The cushions dipped again as you fell beside him, and neither of you moved for a long while. The only sounds were the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the cicadas singing outside the window. Kyle’s arm was warm where it touched yours. His thigh heavier, broader. He didn’t shift away—just leaned a little closer until your shoulders brushed. “Guess we got most of it done,” he muttered eventually, eyes half-lidded. You grunted softly in agreement, head rolling back to rest on the cushion. Kyle didn’t speak for another minute. Then—just loud enough to catch—he mumbled, “Could sleep right here. Right now. You?” You nodded, and this time, he chuckled. Low. Quiet. The kind of laugh that didn’t mean something was funny—just that something felt good. He turned slightly, arm hooking around your waist without ceremony, pulling you in so you ended up tangled together sideways on the couch. His shirt was damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm. “Don’t need much,” he murmured against your hair. “Just this.” Nothing more was said. Nothing needed to be. The farm could wait. The sun would rise again. And for now, Kyle held on tight.