"I'm done," I say.
Then I walk.
Past the fence. Past Chace with his stupid grin. Past Addie's apologetic expression. Past all of them.
I hear Hazel call my name.
I don't stop.
I can't.
If I turn around now, if I look at her, I won't be able to hold the line I'm barely holding.
I make it to the barn before my hands start shaking.
Not from cold. Not from exhaustion.
From wanting something I can't keep chasing.
I brace my palms against the workbench, head down, breathing slow and controlled like that might settle the chaos under my ribs.
It doesn't work.
I can't keep doing this.
Can't keep standing next to her and pretending I don't want to pull her close. Can't keep working beside her like my body doesn't remember exactly how she felt under my hands. Can't survive another almost.
Another interruption.
Another moment where she looks at me like she wants this but won't say it out loud.
I shove off the bench and pace the length of the barn once, then again, boots thudding against the concrete.
I've loved her my whole life.
That's the problem.
Not that I want her. Not that I need her. But that I've always known exactly what it feels like to have her and lose her, and I'm not strong enough to do it again.
She has to choose.
Not me chasing. Not me reaching. Not me standing in a shed with my hands on her body while she gasps my name and then walks away the second someone interrupts.
She has to come to me.
Or let me go.
The barn is quiet except for the sound of my breathing and the distant shuffle of horses in their stalls.
I wait for footsteps behind me.
For her to follow.
For her to say something—anything—that tells me this isn't just me wanting her in pieces.
The minutes stretch.
No one comes.
