"Eli." I'm surprised my voice doesn't shake.
He steps closer and I catch his scent—soap and sun and something woodsy I'd recognize anywhere. The familiarity physically hurts.
I step back and cross my arms.
My body doesn't get a vote here.
"How long you staying?" Eli asks, but he's not really asking—he's confirming I'll leave again.
I tighten my grip on my glass. "Just until Mae's back on her feet."
"Good." There's an edge to it now, sharp enough to cut. "Wouldn't want you to get too comfortable."
The words land like a slap.
Chace laughs nervously. "Come on, man—"
"I'm getting another beer," Eli says, already turning away.
And just like that, he's done with me.
***
We fall into an awkward cluster after that—the four of us trying to pretend this is normal. Chace fills the silence the way he always has, talking about fence repairs and last spring's storm.Shae adds details, keeps things moving with sheer determination.
They're trying so hard to make this feel like before.
But Eli's jaw stays tight and I can't stop gripping my glass like it's the only thing keeping me grounded. Chace and Shae notice—I see it in the way their eyes flick between us.
They know this isn't working.
Eli listens more than he speaks. When he does contribute, it's clipped. He doesn't ask me questions. Doesn't offer anything personal. He's here but not present.
I notice him anyway.
The flex of his forearms when he lifts his beer. A faint scar along his knuckle I don't remember. The way he stands like the floor belongs to him, weight balanced, completely at ease in his own skin.
He's grown into himself. Become exactly who he was always meant to be.
And I wasn't here to see any of it.
My gaze drifts to his hands wrapped around the bottle and something in my chest cracks. I remember those hands—calloused and careful, teaching me how to gentle a spooked horse. Steadying me in the saddle. The last time they touched me, five years ago in the dark.
I turn to Shae fast and laugh at something she hasn't even finished saying.
It isn't subtle, the way Eli avoids me. His attention slides past whenever I speak, his answers neutral when forced to respond.The space between us is charged with everything we're not saying.
It shouldn't irritate me this much. I'm the one who left.
It irritates me anyway.
I catch the flex of his hands around the bottle and I'm back in the round pen—the two of us working a nervous colt together. Moving in perfect sync without needing words.
I shut it down hard, but the ache lingers.
There was nothing to end—that's the worst part. There was no blowup. No line drawn. I just let the space stretch. Let weeks turn into months. Let silence do the work I didn't have the courage to do.
And now here we are. Strangers who know each other too well.
