I need space. Air. The smoke’s suffocating, clawing at my lungs. So, I slip away into the trees before we begin the journey back down the mountain, letting the firs swallow me as I step off the trail, boots crunching soft earth and fallen pine. The air is cooler here, and dappled light shifts between leaves. The scent of wet moss and wood-smoke wraps around me. Birdsong echoes from the branches above, and for a moment, just a moment, the chaos quiets.
But it doesn’t stay quiet for long.
Thoughts of Stormy interrupt the silence like the whisper of the wind through the trees, not entirely noticeable, but there. I can still feel the way her hand slid up my thigh, the gentle pressure, the way I was desperate for her to touch me.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand over my face as if I could scrub the guilt out.
What the hell was I thinking? How did I think we could just casually do this? Like getting physical with someone so painfully sweet, so goddamn beautiful, wouldn’t come with consequences? Like her demons wouldn’t clash against mine and bleed us both dry?
I like Stormy. More than I should. And after this morning … God, it scares the hell out of me. Not because of what we did, but because of what it could mean. What she might think it means.
I don’t want to hurt her, and I don’t want to give her hope for something I’m not sure I can give.
It’s not about her. It’s me, I know, it sounds so cliché. But it’s true. I’ve built walls so high, I barely know what’s on the other side anymore. And with her, the walls are starting to crack a little, to crumble. Letting someone close—actually close? That’s not something I do. Not because I don’t want to. But because I’m terrified of what happens when they finally see it all …how much I’ve been struggling since Dad passed, how the pressure of the ranch is grinding me down, how if I couldn’t even keep my girlfriend and make her happy, then how can I be like Dad and keep this family going? What if she sees all of it and walks away?
Just like Clara did.
It’s been so long since I let myself feel this kind of pull. And now that I do, it’s like I don’t know how to hold it without breaking. I want to be the kind of man who says, “Let’s see where this goes.” But I don’t knowhow to make that promise. Not when all I’ve known is how to keep my distance—how to bolt before someone gets too close.
“Fuck.” I kick a fallen branch. The crack echoes sharply against a nearby trunk, punctuating my frustration.
Where do we go from here?
Another crack rings out behind me, cutting through the forest hush, and I spin, only to find Missy leaning lazily against a tree, arms crossed and a smirk curving her lips.
“What’s up, brother?” Her voice is honeyed mischief. “I’ve got something juicy… and I think you know exactly what.”
I keep my posture loose, feigning nonchalance as I turn back toward the trail. “Nothing’s up, Missy. Wanted a change of scenery. Didn’t realise I needed permission.”
She pushes off the tree with deliberate ease, stalking behind me in slow, circling steps.
“I saw you,” she purrs, rounding me like a hawk. “Sneaking out of Stormy’s tent. Thought you were being really subtle, didn’t you?”
I lift a brow, keeping my voice even.
“She had a bad dream. I sat with her for a bit.” I shrug. “Nothing juicy about that.”
Missy’s grin sharpens.
“Is that why I heard all that heavy breathing?”
I freeze, just for a breath.
“Before you say anything, it’s nothing, okay?” My tone edges towards warning. “Seriously.” I round on her, finger pointed close to her face. “Do not say a word about this to Mom. Or Harper. Or Jensen. I mean it, Missy.”
“Oh, come on.” Her voice is teasing, but grounded, completely ignoring my irritation. “Why’s it such a bad thing? She’s perfect, Ford.”
I shake my head, jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“But do you like her?”
The question sinks like a stone. I hesitate, because of course I like her. I like her too damn much. I look away, knowing my silence says more than words can. But what do I say? I can’t admit it to Missy. I can’t share this with her. Not when I don’t even know what this is myself. Missy softens, just a touch.
“Hey, I’m not trying to stir shit. I just want you to be happy. That’s all … We all do.”
“I’m not talking about this.”
Missy nods, backing off, but her eyes linger, too knowing for comfort.
