Now, it is a little after seven, and I’m struggling to sift through all the feelings I hadn’t fully processed last night.
The room feels emptier without him.
His scent still clings to the sheets, cedar, smoke, and the faint trace of a spicy soap, and for a while I lie there, staring at the wooden beams above me. The heavy silence stretches on. It’s a soft silence, the kind that makes you hear your own heartbeat.
It’s ridiculous, how much space one man can take up.
How his absence feels louder than the hum of the ranch coming to life outside.
I roll onto my side, pulling the covers higher over my shoulder, trying to convince myself I’m fine. That what he said last night doesn’t matter. But the words keep circling back, low and rough, full of that quiet conviction that always makes me believe him even when I shouldn’t.
I cleared space for you.
He said it like a promise. Like it meant something bigger than either of us could admit.
My chest tightens. I hate that it affects me. Hate that after everything I’ve learned about men and their intentions, I still want to believe this one might mean what he says. That maybe he sees me as something more than a temporary distraction in the middle of all his chaos.
The clock on the nightstand ticks past eight before I finally drag myself out of bed. The floorboards are cold under my feet. I find one of his hoodies draped over the back of a chair and pull it on, tugging the sleeves down over my hands. The air smells faintly of coffee and dust and something frying downstairs.
Through the window, the ranch in the distance unfolds in muted gold. Horses move slow in the pastures, their coats glinting under the early sun. Men cross the yard, voices low and easy. The morning has a rhythm that feels almost sacred in its routine.
I press my palm to the glass, watching my breath fog the pane.
This place shouldn’t feel safe. Not after everything. Not when it’s owned by a man who could unravel me with a look. But it does. Maybe that’s what scares me most.
The memory of last night flickers—his hand on my jaw, the way he looked at me when he saidyou understand?
I did.
I do.
But understanding doesn’t make it easier to know how to feel.
After a while, the smell of coffee wins. My stomach growls, and I force myself to move. Quickly, I pull on my leggings and brush out my hair in the mirror, trying not to look like I barely slept.
By the time I make it downstairs, the house is alive again. The murmur of voices filters from the kitchen, men laughing, plates clinking, the scrape of chairs against wood.
I hover in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. The warmth. The noise. The small, ordinary comfort of people starting their day.
And then I step inside.
The kitchen smells like heaven and chaos. Coffee, bacon, butter melting on toast, all of it layered over the sound of too many voices talking at once. Someone’s arguing good-naturedly about whose turn it is to try breaking in one of the new stallions, and someone else’s laughter cracks through the air like thunder.
For a second, I linger by the threshold, half-hidden behind the doorframe, watching.
It’s… different, seeing them like this.
No tense shoulders, no cold professionalism. Simply a bunch of men, rough, sunburned, loud, passing plates and teasing each other like brothers who’ve spent too many years side by side.
One of Colter’s friends, Ace, notices me first. He’s sitting at the far end of the table, coffee mug in hand, eyes sharp even though his posture is relaxed.
“Morning,” he says with a small nod, voice steady enough that it cuts through the chatter.
A few heads turn.
Conversations falter.
Then Jackson grins. “Well, look who’s alive. Thought you were gonna hibernate up there all day.” He gestures toward the empty chair beside him. “C’mon, sit. Before the vultures finish everything.”
