We’ve already tackled something important, and since I have his attention, we might as well go all the way. So, I ask the question that’s been sitting in my chest for weeks. “What about me? Ryder… what about us?”
His eyes lock onto mine, and in that instant, I understand with aching clarity: Giving Julian his name is the easy part—the harder part is what comes after. The part where Ryder Morgan has to decide if he can be more than a ghost.
The question lingers in the air between us. He looks past me, out over the valley, scanning the open land like there might be an enemy hiding in the grass, like it’s safer to watch for threats than to face what’s standing right in front of him.
His throat works once, then, finally, “I don’t know.”
The words are quiet, but they hit like truth always does. I inhale slowly, steadying myself.
“You don’t know if you want me,” I clarify, because I need to hear it cleanly.
Ryder’s head turns sharply, eyes cutting to mine. “That’s not—“
He stops, frustration flashes across his face, before he finally admits, “I don’t know how.”
“How to be… a couple?” I ask softly.
Ryder’s jaw clenches. “How to stay,” he corrects.
The words are stripped down to bone. He looks like a man standing in unfamiliar terrain without a weapon, like every instinct in him is screaming that this is the part where he runs before it destroys him.
I step closer anyway. “Ryder, you don’t have to be perfect.”
“I don’t do perfect,” he mutters.
“I know. You do… survival. But I want more than that. For Julian, and for me.”
Ryder exhales sharply through his nose. “That’s dangerous.”
“So is everything about you,” I say, unable to help the small, breathless laugh that escapes. “And yet here I am.”
His gaze holds mine now, dark and heavy. “You shouldn’t be.”
“Stop telling me what I shouldn’t be,” I snap softly. I’m not angry, just desperate. “I’m here with you, aren’t I? I don’t want a fantasy—I want you, exactly as you are, but present.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The silence stretches thin, charged. I take another step, close enough now that I can feel the heat of him despite the cold air.
“I don’t know how to be what you want,” he confesses, voice rough.
“That’s okay,” I murmur. “I’ll teach you.”
Then I reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw, feeling the roughness of beard, the tension held under skin. Ryder’s eyes close for half a second, then he opens them, and there’s something in them that makes my stomach drop.
He’s decided, and it’s exactly what I want. I kiss him, soft at first, as if questioning him, us, and everything in between. His answer is to pull me closer with his hands—one on my waist, pulling me into him with careful force, mindful of his injuries but unwilling to let me float away. The other slides into my hair, anchoring me as his mouth meets mine fully.
“Ryder…” I inhale against his mouth, trembling.
He makes a low sound—barely restraint—and suddenly his body moves like instinct has taken over. He guides me backward until my back meets the fence post, wood rough behind me, the world wide open around us.
His mouth travels from my jaw to my throat, slowly, like he’s reminding himself I’m here. My hands clutch his jacket, as if to push him away.
“You’re still healing,” I breathe, even as my body betrays me, arching closer.
His mouth pauses at my neck. “I know. Don’t worry, I won’t break.”
I protest no more as his hand slides under my shirt, warm against bare skin, fingers splaying over my stomach. I gasp when he slides higher, cupping my breasts over my bra. His lips return to mine, deeper, hungrier, as he pinches my nipples over the thin material.
I moan into the kiss as the ranch disappears all around us. All that exists is the wind, the fence, and his body pressing into mine, as if he’s trying to memorize the shape of staying. My fingers find his belt, tugging him closer, frustration blooming sharp.
