Two words. Casual. Like we almost didn't— I grab another branch. "Morning."
She steps closer.
"We need to work the colt," she says. "Fall Classic is four weeks out."
I nod once. Still don't look at her.
"I'll meet you at the pen in ten."
She hesitates. I hear it in the pause, the way her weight shifts on the gravel. Then her footsteps retreat, steady and deliberate, leaving me alone with the mess I'm supposed to be cleaning up.
I exhale slow through my nose and toss the rake aside.
This is going to be a long fucking day.
The colt is wound tight when I get to the pen.
He paces the fence line, head high, ears flicking at every sound. Storm nerves. He remembers yesterday. The chaos. The fear.
I step inside slow, keeping my movements calm, predictable. He watches me but doesn't bolt.
"Easy," I murmur. "We're good today."
Hazel arrives a minute later, lead rope coiled over her shoulder. She doesn't say anything. Just slips through the gate and takes up position on the opposite side of the pen.
The morning sun catches her hair. Her shirt is clean, fitted. She looks like she slept.
I hate her for it.
"Let's start with groundwork," she says, voice steady. Professional.
I nod and clip the lead to the colt's halter.
We've done this a hundred times. Worked horses together since we were teenagers. We know how to move around each other. When to step in. When to give space. When to let the other person lead.
It should be muscle memory.
It's not.
The colt settles after a few minutes, enough that I can start working him through basic movements. Walk. Stop. Back. Turn. Hazel mirrors me on the other side, hands steady, voice low and calm.
But I'm too aware of her.
The way she shifts her weight when the colt moves. The way her hands stay loose on the rope even when he tosses his head. The way she tilts her head slightly, reading his body language.
I force my focus back to the horse.
"He's favoring his left front," Hazel says, stepping closer to examine his gait.
I move in from the other side. We're both crouched low now, watching his feet, close enough that I can smell her—soap and something sweet and the faint trace of hay.
Too close.
She leans in further. Her shoulder brushes mine.
The touch is brief. Accidental.
Heat spikes through me anyway.
