"Think about what?" He's not yelling. But something sharp edges into his tone. "Whether I'm worth it?"
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"It's about not making a mistake!" The words tumble out too fast. "About not waking up in five years regretting giving up everything I worked for because I was scared or—"
"Or scared of being in love with me?"
I freeze.
He exhales slowly, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter. Harder. "That's what you're afraid of. That choosing me means choosing wrong."
"No. You're twisting—"
"No, I'm listening. Loud and clear, Hazel."
"You're not!" Frustration claws up my throat. "You're acting like I've already chosen against you."
"You haven't chosen." He crosses his arms. "That's the problem."
"I'm not ready yet," I say, and I hate how my voice cracks on the word. "Why can't that be enough for now?"
Somethingflickers through his expression.
"Because 'for now' is how you left last time."
The room goes still.
My chest tightens. "This isn't the same."
"Isn't it?"
"Mae's fine now. The ranch is stable. You've got Chace, you've got work—you'll be fine."
His expression shifts. Goes cold.
"And we could still see each other," I add quickly, desperately. "Denver's only a few hours away. I could come back on weekends—"
"No."
The word cuts clean through.
"People do long distance—"
"I won't be someone you visit on weekends." His voice stays level but there's steel in it now. "I won't be the thing you keep in Montana while you build your real life somewhere else."
"That's not—"
"You're either here or you're not." He holds my gaze. "There's no in-between."
Panic crawls up my spine. "So this is an ultimatum?"
"It's a boundary."
"It's the same thing!"
"No." He's not yelling. But the word lands hard. "It's me telling you what I can survive. And weekends aren't it."
