We stepped out through the service gate into the crisp air of the parking lot. The night smelled like snow and exhaust. The music from inside spilled out in muffled bursts each time the door swung open.
Kristin leaned into me as we walked. Her body trembled, her hand gripping my jacket.
“You came for me again,” she whispered.
“I always will.”
She nodded against my chest, eyes closing for a moment like she was trying to believe it. The lights from the arena painted gold across her hair. I guided her toward the truck parked near the loading dock.
Inside the cab, it was quiet. The heater hummed. She sat close, still shaking, staring down at her hands.
“I’d forgotten to watch tonight. It felt normal, like we were safe there,” she whispered.
“We are now.”
Her lip quivered. “He looked different, but I knew. The way he smiled. The way he said my name.”
I reached over and took her hand. “He can’t say it anymore.”
Her breath came out uneven. She turned her face toward the window, watching the flakes drift across the glass.
I wanted to tell her it was finished, that she could breathe again, but the words stuck in my throat. The truth was heavier. It was never really finished. Not after something like that.
She turned back, eyes glassy but steady. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”
“I’d do it a hundred times over to keep you safe.”
She didn’t argue. She just leaned into me, resting her head against my shoulder. The sound of her breathing slowly evened out.
The door to the arena opened in the distance, and the others stepped out one by one, heads low, hands shoved in their jackets. No one spoke. They didn’t have to.
Ryder gave a slight nod before climbing into his truck. The taillights glowed red in the snow, then disappeared into the dark.
Kristin’s fingers found mine. “Take me home.”
“Quit reading my mind,” I said as I put my arm around her shoulder, and held her tight next to me.
The road back to the ranch was quiet. The snow fell harder, whispering against the windshield. Her head tipped toward me, eyes closed, lashes damp.
By the time the highway curved toward the long drive, the tension in her body had started to ease. The glow from the arena faded behind us until it was nothing but a faint line of light on the horizon.
When I parked beside the house, she stayed still for a moment, breathing in the silence.
“Linc,” she said softly.
“Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
I looked at her. Her hair was tangled, cheeks streaked with dust and tears, but she was alive. That was enough.
“You never have to thank me,” I said.
She nodded, then opened the door. The cold rushed in, sharp and clean. She climbed out and waited for me to circle around the truck. When I reached her, she slipped her hand into mine.
Inside, the house was warm and dim. The tree lights still blinked in the corner. She kicked off her boots and stood there for a long time, staring at them like she could still hear the echo of the crowd.
I set my hat on the counter and pulled her close again. She melted against me, silent.
