It scares me, dreamer.
You’re gone. I know that. I know you’re not coming back and that the world is going to keep moving, whether I want it to or not. But loving you was the last solidthing about me. If I’m capable of wanting someone else, then what does that make my love for you? Was it smaller than I thought?
I keep replaying the dream, hating myself for the parts of it that felt good. Hating my body for responding. Hating the way my mind blurred the line between you and her, like you were interchangeable. You are not interchangeable. No one could ever be you. That’s another truth.
But Teagan isn’ttryingto be you, and I don’t want her to be.
When I’m around her, I feel something other than grief. And I don’t know if I’m allowed to want that. I don’t know if I deserve it. I don’t know if I’m healing or just failing you.
I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, and if I take one step forward, I lose you all over again. Because if I let myself care about her, even a little, then I have to admit that I’m stillalive. And being alive without you has felt like a betrayal from the start.
If there’s a version of you somewhere that can hear me now, I hope you know I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.
If loving you meant anything—and it did, it still does—then I hope you can forgive me for being this lost.
You were my whole story. You still are, because I don’t know who I am without you. And I don’t know who I’m becoming, but I’m growing tired of being a ghost in my own body.
I woke up divided. Half of me is still reaching for you, and the other, standing too close to a wildfire, knowing if I step any nearer, I could lose everything again.
The distance between Easton and me doesn’t happen all at once. It arrives in fragments so small they could almost be dismissed if I weren’t paying such careful attention.
Easton still wakes before dawn and moves through the barn with that same quiet competence; his hands steady and sure as he saddles Ranger or hauls feed like he’s been doing it his whole life. He still answers Dad with a respectful nod and trades the occasional sarcastic banter with Knox when provoked. To anyone else, nothing has changed.
But I feel it.
It lives in the empty spaces where he used to be. He doesn’t linger near me anymore or drift unconsciously into the same orbit. If I step into the tack room, he finds a reason to leave. When I cross the yard, he suddenly remembers something urgent waiting for him in the opposite direction. If we miraculously end up close to each other by accident, his attention fixes on anything but me—his hands, his horse, the horizon, the ground—anywhere saferthan my face.
It would be easier if he’d done something wrong. If he had said something cruel or crossed some clear line I could point to and say, “There—that’s the moment everything broke,” I would feel better.
Instead, it’s this careful absence. A deliberate refusal to exist in the same space. Which is worse, because it means he’schoosingit.
This means whatever happened between us—the charged silences, accidental touches that lingered too long, and his large hand cradling my face like I was fragile—meant nothing to him. And I don’t know what to do with that. I tried to ignore it at first, but pride is a stubborn thing. I fail to persuade myself I don’t need his attention, his approval, or whatever fragile, unspoken thread had begun weaving itself between us. But the body is not as easily convinced as the mind.
The push and pull was driving me crazy, but the absence of it leaves me raw. By the end of the week, frustration coils so tight inside my chest it feels like it might crack if I let it grow there much longer.
I don’t get spun around in guys. Not once have I spent a night crying, wondering why a guy doesn’t like me. I’m not this kind of girl. I deserve clarity and honesty. And if he isn’t going to give it to me, I’m going to go and take it. The decision to go to him settles into my bones with the same quiet certainty as sunrise.
The bunkhouse stands apart from everything else, tucked just beyond the main stretch of buildings, existing in its own separate world. The walk there feels longer than it should, and my agitation only grows as I cross the distance,every step crunching too loudly against the gravel as my pulse thrums in my throat.
After another long day of this unbearable distance, I climb the steps and knock before I can second-guess myself. The sound echoes through the wood. I wait, impatiently. Nothing. I knock again, louder this time. Still nothing. My gaze flicks toward his truck parked nearby, its familiar shape dark against the fading light. He’s here.He has to be.
“Easton?” I call, my voice carrying into the quiet.
I hesitate when he doesn’t answer, my hand hovering above the handle. There’s a line here. An invisible boundary, but I cross it anyway.
The door opens easily, swinging inward with a low creak. The air inside smells faintly of soap, warm amber, and clean cotton. It smells like him, though I’ve never consciously thought about that before. The realization lands somewhere low in my stomach, unsettling in its stolen intimacy.
The space is simple. Boots line the wall, and his bed is neatly made. The journal he is always writing in rests on the small bedside table beside the mattress. On top of it, a photo frame with a picture I can’t quite see from this angle.
“Easton?” I try again, softer now.
The sound of running water stops abruptly, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the bathroom door. Steam curls through the air on the other side of the threshold. Easton reaches from behind the curtain for a towel, sliding back the shower curtain as he pulls the towel to his face.
My breath catches at the sight of him. Water clings to him in scattered rivulets, tracing the contours of his body. Hisshoulders are broad enough to fill the open doorway, and his muscles shift beneath still-damp skin. Droplets gather at the ends of his dark hair before falling, sliding down the strong column of his throat and over the defined planes of his chest.
Betraying me, my gaze follows one bead as it travels lower, over the firm ridges of his abdomen, where muscle tightens instinctively at the sensation. A faint trail of darker hair resting beneath his navel absorbs the droplet, but my eyes roam down the trail before I can stop myself.Holy…He is long, thick, and ungodly impressive.
I don’t even realize I’ve gasped until he tears the towel away from his face, freezing when he sees me. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, still dripping onto his brow as his dark eyes lock onto mine. Heat floods my face, and my lungs forget their purpose, but I’m frozen in place, unable to break our stare. He looks just as stunned, exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the absence of clothing.
