The colt shifts again, hooves scuffing softly against the dirt floor. I keep my hand steady on the lead, rubbing a slow circle at his cheek until his breathing evens out.
"He's settling," I say. "That first panic spike burned off fast."
Eli nods once. "He does that."
Short. Controlled.
The rain keeps pounding the roof, a steady roar that turns the shed into its own small world. Wind rattles the door hard enough to make the hinges groan. I glance toward it, then back to the colt.
"We can't leave him in here all night," I say. "Once the worst of it passes, he should go back to his stall."
"Agreed."
Another nod. Still not looking at me.
I swallow and shift my stance, boots scraping hay. "If the temperature drops like this, he'll be tight tomorrow. We'll need to warm him up longer."
"We'll adjust," Eli says. "No shortcuts."
Of course.
"How long do you think the storm'll last?" I ask.
"Hour. Maybe two."
"And the pasture gate?"
"I'll check it once this lets up."
He glances at the roof instead of at me.
I nod, even though he can't see it. "If the wind keeps up, the west fence might need a walk-through too."
"I know."
Clipped. Efficient. Nothing wasted.
Silence fills the shed again, thick and heavy. The colt lowers his head, finally calm, and I rest my forehead briefly against his neck, breathing him in. Hay. Warmth. Familiar things.
I straighten and risk a look at Eli.
He's turned slightly away from me now, hands on his hips, gaze fixed on the far wall like it's offering answers. He won't look at me for more than a second at a time. When he does, it's quick. Careful. Like eye contact might knock something loose he can't afford to feel.
Five minutes ago, he was hauling a panicked horse through a storm without thinking twice.
Now he won't meet my eyes.
I know why.
This is the Eli who locks everything down because wanting more feels dangerous. The Eli who believes if he keeps moving, keeps planning, keeps his hands busy, the past won't catch up to him.
The Eli who learned, the hard way, what happens when he lets himself want something without guarantees.
I tighten my grip on the lead, grounding myself, and focus back on the colt. On the rain. On the work.
Anything but the memory pressing in from the edges. The morning light years ago. The quiet after. The way leaving felt like the only way to breathe and also like the worst thing I've ever done.
"We should remove his halter," I say, breaking the silence. "He's soaked through."
