I turned to look at her. At this woman who’d driven across town before dawn with cheap beer and silence. Who hadn’t asked for explanations or offered comfort that asked something back. Who had just shown up—steady, present, asking nothing in return.
The words gathered in my throat. Heavy. Dangerous. True.
I love you.
I’d been falling since the night she crossed the firehouse kitchen and offered to save my life with a proposal that should’ve sent me running. Since the way she fought for Mia like the world might end if she didn’t. Since the way she let me closer one inch at a time. Since the way she looked at the ranch like it wasn’t just land, but possibility.
I love you,and the fear of saying it was sharp enough to taste. And still—I was ready to say it.
I opened my mouth.
Riley turned then. The morning light softened her features, stripped away some of the armor she wore so well. Her eyes were gentle, searching, like she was standing on the edge of the same thought. For one suspended second, I was sure she knew. Sure she felt it too. Sure this was the moment everything tipped.
Her gaze dropped—not away from me, just downward, grounding herself. She took a slow breath.
“We should get back.” Her voice was quiet, practical. A hand tightened briefly around the bottle. “Mia will be up soon.”
And just like that, the air shifted.
I swallowed the confession before it could break loose. Nodded. Pushed myself to my feet.
She was right. Mia needed us. The ranch needed tending. Horses didn’t wait for emotional clarity. Life had a way of demanding motion, of offering a hundred good reasons to postpone the truth. Reasons to stay quiet. Reasons to protect what existed rather than risk it on three words that could change everything.
I held out my hand.
She took it.
Her palm was warm, familiar now, callused where it mattered. I pulled her up, and for a moment—longer than necessary—we stayed that way. Hands linked. Eyes locked. A heartbeat. Then another. Something flickered between us, too quick to name, too real to ignore.
Then she let go.
The warmth disappeared. The space rushed back in, cold and immediate. The moment folded in on itself like it had never existed.
I almost told her.
Sitting there with dawn breaking over the mountains, her shoulder still warm where it had been pressed against mine, the words crowded my throat. Three of them. Simple. Brutal.
I love you.
They pulsed there, demanding air. Demanding risk.
But she stood, and the spell broke. The world reasserted itself—chores, schedules, responsibility—and I let the words sink back down. Swallowed them like I’d been trained to do.
Like a coward.
Like a man who’d learned early that wanting was the first step toward losing.
Owen’s voice cut through me, sharp and relentless.So tell her.
I would. I told myself that like it was a promise and not a postponement. Soon. When I wasn’t scraped raw by a bad call. When sleep wasn’t a distant concept. When my hands didn’t still smell like smoke and grief. When I could be certain—absolutely certain—that she felt it too.
When saying the words wouldn’t make her step back and realize she never needed me in the first place.
Soon.
I just had to find the courage first.
CHAPTER 13
