I should move. I don't.
My fingers trace idle patterns on his ribs—lazy, absent. Not asking. Not promising. Just touching because he's there and I can.
"I can't promise I won't get scared again," I say quietly. The words feel necessary, even now. "Or that I won't wake up one day and panic."
His chest rises under my cheek. Falls.
"But I'm not leaving tonight," I continue. "Or tomorrow. I'm here. And I'm trying."
His hand moves, thumb brushing a quiet line along my ribs.
"That's more than I had yesterday," he says finally.
I lift my head enough to look at him. His eyes are closed, expression softer than I've seen it in days.
"Is it enough?" I ask.
He opens his eyes then. Meets mine without flinching.
"It has to be," he says.
Something tightens in my chest—gratitude and guilt and something more dangerous I won't name yet.
I settle back against him, fitting into the space like muscle memory. He pulls the blanket higher, tucks it around my shoulders, his touch careful in a way that feels dangerous all on its own.
Outside, the ranch is quiet. No urgency. No future pounding at the door yet.
Just this. Just us.
His breath evens out. Mine follows.
I tell myself this is all it is—heat and comfort and a night we won't name.
But my body already knows the truth.
It always has.
Chapter twenty-eight
Hazel
Morning comes quietly.
No alarm. No rush. Just soft gray light pressing through the bathroom window and the sound of pipes knocking awake beneath the floorboards.
I stand under the shower, letting the water run hot against my shoulders. My muscles ache in places that have nothing to do with ranch work. My thighs. My hips. The base of my spine where his hands gripped last night.
Three days since I went to his cabin and didn't leave until dawn. Three days of falling into a pattern I'm not ready to name.
Work until sunset. Then night comes, and I'm at his door again.
I wake up tangled in him every morning. Warm. Heavy-limbed. Safe in a way I haven't let myself feel in years.
If Mae's noticed, she hasn't said anything. Just coffee in the pot every morning and questions about fence posts and whether the colt ate his grain.
I shut off the water and step out, steam curling around me. Pull on jeans and a clean shirt, braid my hair while still barefoot.
Today I'm paying the Fall Classic registration fee.
