Hazel
The rain is louder in here.
It hammers the metal roof in uneven bursts, a sharp, hollow sound that fills the space and leaves nowhere for silence to hide. Wind rattles the walls. Something loose bangs once, then again, metal on metal, the rhythm wrong and jarring.
The shed is smaller than it looked from the outside.
Hay bales stack close along one wall, the air thick with damp and dust and the warm, animal smell of the colt pressed between us. He breathes hard, nostrils flaring, every exhale loud in the tight space. I can feel it in my chest, like my own lungs are trying to match his.
I'm suddenly aware of everything.
Mud caked on my jeans. Rain-soaked shirt plastered to my skin, cold now that we've stopped moving. My hair dripping down my back. The burn in my arms from hauling the colt through the storm.
And the way my pulse is beating low and fast—not from the run anymore, but from how close Eli is standing now that we've stopped moving.
Heat pools low in my stomach, having nothing to do with the temperature in here.
Too close.
He hasn't said a word.
That's how I know something's different.
Eli is quiet when he's thinking, but this is something else. This is restraint. His body is still, shoulders tight, like he's holding himself in place by force. I don't look at him right away, but I don't need to. I can feel him there. Solid. Familiar. A presence that fills the space whether I invite it or not.
Five minutes ago, we were moving. Solving. Reacting.
Now we're just… here.
The awareness settles in slow and heavy. This isn't accidental. This isn't the storm's fault. This is what happens when we stop pretending we don't feel it.
My hand tightens on the lead without me meaning to.
And then the memory hits.
The porch. The rough scrape of his stubble against my skin. The way his hands framed my face like he needed to anchorhimself there. The kiss wasn't careful. It wasn't curious. It landed hard, like something he'd been holding back too long.
Like something he didn't trust himself with.
My mouth still remembers it. The pressure. The certainty. The way he pulled back just enough to breathe before saying the thing that's been sitting under my skin ever since.
I just needed to know that you're still there.
My throat tightens.
I don't know what scares me more—that he needed to know, or that the answer was yes without me having to think about it.
The colt shifts, bumping my hip lightly, grounding me back in the present. I murmur to him without looking away from the space in front of me, voice low and steady. It's easier to focus on him. On something that needs calm instead of clarity.
Eli shifts his weight beside me.
The smallest movement. Barely anything.
But my pulse jumps anyway.
The air feels charged now, different from the chaos outside. Thicker. Waiting. Like the moment right before something breaks, or changes, or can't be undone.
And we're both standing perfectly still, pretending we don't feel it.
