Outside, the air is sharp and clean, biting at her cheeks. The sky is pale with early winter light. She doesn’t notice where we’re going at first; she’s too busy sneaking glances at me.
Something’s shifted between us. She’s becoming worn out from the constant push and pull, and it’s my responsibility not to let it drain her. Part of me resents it. The other part can’t stand being without her next to me. So I keep her close, pulling her into my side as we walk, my arm wrapping firmly around her waist.
Because the tenderness,the silence, the warmth, the way I’m guiding her like something precious instead of something owned, it’s unfamiliar.
And that terrifies her just like it terrifies me.
She stiffens.
“What is this?” she asks quietly, her breath clouding in the cold. “Why are you—”
But she doesn’t finish the question.
The crunch of gravel gives way to soft dirt as we approach the stables.
She hasn’t pieced it together yet. She’s still clutching my coat like a lifeline, still glancing up at me like she’s bracing for the snap of a trap.
Then the scent hits her: hay, leather, horses.
Her steps falter.
“Wait,” she says, barely a whisper.
But I don’t stop walking, I guide her forward, hand firm at her back instead. And then she sees them.
Four horses, glossy and still as statues, watching us from their stalls. The soft rustle of hooves, the flick of a tail, a quiet snort from the far end.
And there, stall three.
Lilibet.
The dapple-gray mare lifts her head and blinks slowly.
Like she remembers.
I’m not giving her what she wants to be kind. I’m giving it to her so she’ll never forget who controls everything she has.
Her knees give out before she even realizes what’s happening. She crumples to the ground in the straw-dusted aisle, hands clutching at her mouth, a sob tearing out of her like it surprised her too.
She tries to hold it in, but this isn’t something she can think through. She’s shaking, crying, her breath hiccupping in her throat like a child’s.
I crouch beside her again, the same way I did earlier, but now she’s not afraid of punishment. She’s scared of this. The tenderness. The way I’m watching her fall apart without lifting a single finger.
“What the fuck, Hayden?” she chokes, eyes wide. “How? How did you?”
I reach out and brush her hair from her face, slowly and carefully.
“Shh,” I whisper.
She grabs my wrist like she wants to hit me. Or cling to me.
I let her.
Because I know exactly what this is. What I’ve done.
She’s still on the ground, clutching at the straw like it might anchor her. Tears streak down her cheeks, soft and helpless. Her eyes flick between Lilibet, who’s stepped closer to the stall door, ears pricked forward, and me.
And then she looks at me like she’s seeing something she shouldn’t. Something too big to hold in her chest.
