The realization settles cold and certain.
She's not coming.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
I grab my keys off the workbench and head for my truck, jaw tight, every step deliberate.
I need space. Distance. Anything but standing here waiting for something that isn't going to happen.
The sun sets slow and red by the time I make it back to Dawson Ranch.
My place is quiet. Empty. Exactly what I don't need right now.
I stand on the porch, keys in hand, staring at the door like crossing the threshold will somehow fix the knot in my chest.
It won't.
But I go inside anyway. Drop my keys. Stand in the kitchen with my hands braced on the counter, breathing like I've run miles instead of driven them.
My resolve is holding.
Barely.
I won't go to her. I won't knock on her door. I won't drive back to Clark Ranch and stand outside her window like some lovesick fool hoping she'll look at me the way she did five years ago.
She has to choose.
But standing here, alone in the dark, knowing she's just miles away across the property line, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold this line.
Because if she comes to me now—if she shows up at my door and says she wants this, even without promises, even without guarantees—I'll break.
I'll take whatever she gives me.
Even knowing it won't be enough.
Even knowing "right now" isn't the same as forever.
Even knowing I'll wake up one day and she'll be gone again, and this time I won't survive it.
I'll take it anyway.
Even if it's temporary. Even if it destroys me later.
And I hate myself for it.
But I can't stop wanting her.
I never could.
And if she walks through that door tonight, I'll give her everything.
Even knowing she'll take it with her when she leaves.
Chapter twenty-six
Hazel
The ranch is quiet by late afternoon.
