The barn.
I can still feel it in my hands—how close we stood, how the air between us went hot and tight, how she looked at me like she was angry at herself for wanting me. How she said we couldn’t. How I agreed because it was the right call, because the ranch is on fire and we’re supposed to be the men and women who don’t add gasoline.
But the second I walked away, something in my chest started tearing at the bars.
Because agreeing in the barn felt like putting my mouth to a lie and drinking it down.
I told her,mission first.
I meant it. I still do.
But I’m not built to pretend I don’t feel something when it’s clawing its way through my ribs. I did that overseas—shoved everything down until it became a hard knot I carried like extra gear. It kept me alive. It didn’t make me whole.
And Delaney… Delaney makes me want whole.
I push up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet find the floor without a sound. I sit there for a beat, elbows on my knees, head bowed, breathing through it like it’s a craving.
Don’t.
That’s the responsible voice.
You promised.
That’s the honorable one.
And then there’s the other voice—the one that never shut up, not once, not when I was half a world away and trying to forget what her laugh sounded like.
Go to her.
I scrub a hand down my face and stand.
The hallway is dim, lit by the small lamp Mrs. Coleman leaves on like she’s warding off bad dreams. I pad across the worn floorboards, shoulders loose, senses sharp. Habit. Training. Fear.
I stop outside Delaney’s door.
My heart stutters like a rookie.
Which is embarrassing. I’ve stared down things that would turn most men white. I’ve kept my composure when the world was coming apart in smoke and metal and screaming.
But a closed door and a girl I’ve loved since I was twelve?
I lift my hand and hover.
If I knock, there’s no un-knocking.
If she opens the door, everything changes.
My knuckles tap the wood anyway—soft, but sure.
Silence. A breath. The faint slide of bare feet.
The latch clicks.
Delaney opens the door a crack, then wider when she sees it’s me.
She’s in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, hair loose and thick and dark around her face. No mascara. No armor. Just her, soft in the lamplight, eyes wide with sleep and confusion and something that looks like she’s been thinking too.
“Nash?” she whispers. “Is something wrong?”
