“Shut up and eat,” Harper said, not unkind.
Riley wandered in last, hoodie zipped to his chin, sunglasses hiding most of his face. He went straight for the coffee, bypassed food, and dropped into the chair beside Ethan. “I’m not a morning person,” Riley announced, like it was a warning.
Ethan grinned. “Are you ever?”
“Only after sex.” Riley deadpanned.
Cole entered with no fanfare—fresh jeans, plain black T-shirt, and the kind of stride that let you know the day’s schedule was already tattooed behind his eyes. The room shifted around his gravity. He offered a tight nod to each of them, then grabbed a single egg, black, unsugared coffee, and perched at the end of the table.
“Eat up. Pack out in thirty,” he said. The command brooked no argument.
Conversation went sideways from there— Harper going all-in on the anatomy of mountain hangovers, Riley texting even while chewing. Ethan picked at the food, appetite caught between last night’s aftertaste and the pressure of what was next.
Cole ate in silence, jaw moving slow, eyes fixed on the dark stretch of window beyond the kitchen. Only once did he look up, and when he did it was right at Ethan—bare, unfiltered, the stare a blunt instrument.
Ethan dropped his gaze to his mug. He tried not to think about the shape of Cole’s mouth, the split-second brush of hands the night before, or the fact that he’d dreamed about both.
Cole stood, finished first. “Meet at the barn when you’re ready,” he said, voice even. “It’s cold out. Dress smart.”
Harper knocked back her juice and started stacking plates. “You’ll want boots, Ethan. Proper ones, not those city loafers. There’s a locker room next to the tack shed if you didn’t bring any.”
“Noted,” he said.
She eyed him for a moment, her gaze sharp but not unfriendly. “You ready for this?”
Ethan shrugged. “Define ‘ready.’”
Harper grinned. “Don’t die on day one and you’ll make the slideshow. Come on, I’ll help you with the gear.”
They headed out together, boots echoing down the flagstone corridor. Ethan breathed in the pine and woodsmoke and let the adrenaline settle. The yard was already alive—horses saddled and shifting, wranglers moving in efficient arcs, the day crisp and brutally honest.
They found their packs lined up against the barn. Harper went to work with methodical precision, sorting her gear into waterproof bags, double-checking every cinch and buckle. Ethan did his best to mirror her, though his hands fumbled with the knots.
“You ever camp before?” she asked, slicing the silence.
“Only the kind with Wi-Fi and turn-down service,” he admitted.
She laughed. “You’ll do fine. Just keep your head up and listen to Cole. He’s good. Knows the land better than Google Maps.”
Ethan risked a glance toward the far paddock. Cole was alone with the horses, moving from one to the next, checking saddle fit and bridle tension, giving each animal a wordless, grounding touch. His movements were almost intimate—like he was calibrating the world to himself, one living thing at a time.
Ethan found himself watching the lines of Cole’s body: the way his back flexed under the thin tee, the cut of his shoulders, the absolute certainty in every motion. He wondered if it was possible to envy a man and want him in the same breath.
“You’ll want to hydrate, too,” Riley’s voice cut in, sudden over Ethan’s shoulder. “Altitude headache is a bitch.”
Ethan took the proffered Nalgene, noting the stickers: national parks, rainbow flags, a line of tiny metallic hearts. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Riley said, lowering his sunglasses to peer at Ethan with unguarded curiosity. “You doing okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
Riley shrugged. “First time out here, new crowd, lots of—” he gestured in the general direction of the horses, mountains, sky, “—energy. It’s a lot. Especially if you’re used to running solo.”
Ethan was about to object, but then realized Riley wasn’t teasing. “Yeah. It’s a lot. But it’s good.”
“Thought so,” Riley said, smile returning. “You’ll fit right in.”
Cole called from the fence line. “Circle up!”
