Dirty. Sweaty. Breath rough in his chest. The buckskin lathered, sides heaving, but steady as ever beneath him. Than slid down, boots hitting the dirt hard, fingers still clenched in the halter like he hadn’t decided yet whether to let go.
Shawl stood near the corral fence. Smart. He knew Than wouldn’t leave the buckskin like this. He was a captured audience.
He had no response to Than’s outburst, that Than was sure he and Fly cataloged. He simply watched, hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed in a way that wasn’t casual but settled.
Than detested it immediately. Fear spiked, and anger followed. It crawled under his skin.
Shawl waited until Than led the horse in a circle, cooling him, until his breathing slowed just enough to be dangerous. Then he spoke. “Why haven’t you named your horse yet?”
The question hit like a misstep in the dark.
His jaw locked, heat surging up his spine. He turned slowly, eyes hard, every instinct flaring to combat readiness.
“Are you probing me?” Than snapped. “You think because I lost Mei, I can’t name a damn horse because I’ve got attachment issues?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I didn’t have a blankie when I was a kid either. Want to dissect that next?” He grabbed a brush and went to work, strokes strong, efficient.
The words came sharp, precise. Weaponized. A warning.
Shawl didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct him. Didn’t defend himself. He only nodded once, as if acknowledging the force of the blow rather than its content.
Than waited. Muscles coiled. Ready for the counterstrike. It didn’t come.
Shawl’s gaze flicked briefly to the buckskin, still, patient, unbothered, then back to Than. “I asked because most men name what they intend to keep,” he said. “And avoid naming what they’re afraid to lose.”
Silence fell hard and heavy. Than’s chest tightened. Shawl let it sit there. Then, gently, not softly, gently, he added, “You don’t owe me an answer.”
Than swallowed, anger still humming through him, but something underneath it had shifted.
The buckskin nudged Than’s shoulder once, a quiet, grounding weight, and he noticed he’d stopped brushing. Than exhaled through his nose. “Yeah,” he muttered, trying to refuse to rise to the bait, but his mind was already in motion. “That’s what I thought.”
He turned back to the horse, hand still tight in the halter and finished.
Shawl wasn’t apparently done. “I don’t need to dissect you. Your brother is a SEAL. They are a paradox. They’re profoundly attached, and they learn to be strategically unattached to protect what they love. The mental toughness isn't a lack of feeling. It's the mastery of it.” Than paused in picking up the hose to wash the horse down. Shawl pushed away from the fence. “Who are you protecting, Than? Mei? Yourself?” Than tensed. Goddamn, Bear for bringing him here. His voice got heavier. “Fly?”
He started toward the house.
“Just for your information. The attached SEAL…is the foundation. Everything else is just tactical.” He said it so casually, Than wanted to punch him in the face. “If you want to walk with the truth, you know where to find me.”
Shawl, wisely, said nothing more. Than stood there, hand still on the buckskin’s neck, pulse hammering. He was going to make sure he was wherever that man wasn’t.
It had taken days of Than looking at him like he was already lost, like he’d chosen the wrong side, for the fracture to fully set.
Fly didn’t blame him. Grief did strange, territorial things. But it still gutted him to realize Than thought he was sleeping with the enemy. That he’d crossed some invisible line just by listening. He was barely holding himself together as it was, barely staying on task, and now even the one person who’d always stood shoulder to shoulder with him felt out of reach.
Shawl’s question settled into his chest like a stone he couldn’t swallow. Every rep, every breath, passed through its impossible gravity.
Would she blame me?
The words weren’t just a thought. He wanted clarity, desperately. For a way to know Mei’s mind. One more conversation. One more chance to read the quiet intelligence in her eyes and understand what she’d seen, what she’d forgiven.
He glanced at Than, so familiar, so solid, and felt the shock of how strange that presence had become. Cold dread coiled low in his gut.
They were supposed to be in this together.
Instead, Fly was drowning within a question only he could hear.
An answer from a dead woman. How was that possible? He thirsted for clarity, for him to just know Mei’s mind. But, of course, how could he? They were friends, and he had to wonder how they didn’t know her better.
The realization dawned on him of how much they had missed while she was alive. Had their perfectly balanced trio been built on a foundation of unspoken secrets? That fucking killed him.
