"That's it," she whispers. "That's it."
Addie's face changes then—concentration cracking just enough to let joy flicker through. She reins it in immediately, refocuses, drives toward the final obstacle.
The last stretch is a blur of motion and sound. The colt moves like he's floating now, energy coiled but controlled, Addie guiding him with absolute trust.
Final obstacle—perfect.
They cross the line clean, no hesitation, no faults.
For a heartbeat, the arena is silent.
Then it erupts.
Applause crashes in. Cheers erupt. Addie throws one hand into the air before she can stop herself, grin splitting her face wide open.
I feel it then—this overwhelming swell in my chest that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with pride.
This is ours.
This moment. This horse. This win, whatever place it earns.
We built this.
As Addie rides out of the arena, still grinning, still buzzing, my hands finally loosen on the rail. My breath comes shaky, my eyes burning just a little.
I should be thinking about what happens next.
About Eli. About what I still haven't said.
Instead, all I can think is this:
No matter what comes after—
This was real.
***
Addie dismounts the moment she clears the gate, breathless and glowing, helmet already coming off as she jogs over.
"That felt perfect," she says, eyes bright, hands shaking just a little. "Did it look perfect?"
I don't hesitate. "It was perfect."
The colt nudges her shoulder like he knows exactly what she's talking about, breath warm against her arm. She laughs and wraps both arms around his neck, pressing her face into his mane.
"You did it," she murmurs. "We did it."
People gather around them in quick bursts—congratulations, pats on the shoulder, quiet murmurs of approval. The energy in the warm-up area shifts, anticipation buzzing sharp and electric.
We wait.
Competitors finish their rounds one by one, each name called over the loudspeaker tightening the coil in my chest a little more. Addie paces. Sits. Stands again. The colt stands calmly at her side, unbothered, like he's already decided how this ends.
I tell myself not to look for him.
I do anyway.
Across the arena, near the scoreboard, Eli stands with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in that way that means nothing about him is casual. His gaze is fixed on the numbers as they update, face unreadable, jaw set.
