I stand up fast. "I'll keep an eye on it."
She straightens too, and I catch the way her breath hitches.
She felt it too.
We keep working. The colt moves between us, responding to our cues, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.
Hazel reaches across to adjust the halter, and her hand brushes mine on the lead.
This time it's not accidental.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb. She inhales sharp.
I force myself to let go.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"It's fine."
It's not fine.
We circle the pen, working the colt through turns and stops. Every movement requires us to coordinate, to read each other, to move in sync. It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with touch.
And it's killing me.
Hazel steps in to guide the colt's shoulder, and I move to his hip at the same time. We're sandwiching him now, bodies angled in, working together to shift his weight and balance.
It requires proximity. Trust. Timing.
Her hand lands on his ribcage. Mine lands just below hers.
We're inches apart. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. Close enough that when she shifts her weight, her hip brushes my thigh.
The colt settles between us, calm now, trusting.
We don't move.
We should. The exercise is done. But neither of us steps back.
Hazel's breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. I watch the pulse jump at her throat.
"Eli," she says quietly.
It's not a question. It's not a plea. Just my name, said in a way that makes my chest tighten and my hands ache to reach for her.
I take a step back instead.
The loss of contact feels wrong. Immediate.
"We should run him through it again," I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She nods once, not looking at me. "Yeah."
We reset. Work the colt through the same exercise. Then again.
Each time, we end up too close. Each time, the air gets thicker. Each time, it takes more effort to step back.
By the fourth run-through, sweat dampens my shirt despite the cool morning. My hands shake slightly when I adjust the lead. Not from exertion.
