My hands are white-knuckled on the wheel. I keep loosening my grip, then tightening it again without realizing. My palms are slick. My shoulders ache from holding themselves too high. There's a dull, hollow feeling behind my ribs, like the crash after adrenaline, but the fear is still sharp enough to sting.
I practice the words anyway.
I quit my job. I'm staying. I chose this.
They sound different every time I say them in my head. Sometimes confident. Sometimes fragile. Sometimes like they might dissolve the second I open my mouth. I rearrange them,discard them, try again. None of them feel strong enough to carry what I'm about to do.
The road stretches out ahead of me, a ribbon of dark asphalt cutting through land I know by heart. Every curve, every fence line, every dip where the shadows gather. I've driven this route a thousand times. It feels different tonight. Charged. Like it's watching me, waiting to see if I'll follow through.
I chose, I remind myself. Now I have to tell him. And hope it's not too late.
His truck is already there when I turn onto his drive.
The sight of it hits me straight in the chest. Relief and terror crash together so hard I have to pull over before I overshoot the parking spot. My foot stays pressed to the brake long after the engine idles down. I just sit there, counting my breaths, staring through the windshield like I might find courage etched into the glass.
Twice, my hand drifts toward the door handle, then pulls back. My chest feels too tight. My fingers tremble when I finally force them to move. If I don't get out now, I won't.
The air outside is cool and sharp. It hits my face and wakes me up just enough to stand. My legs feel unsteady as I start toward the cabin. Every step feels deliberate, heavy with the weight of what I'm about to undo or remake.
I stop at the door. Lift my fist.
And freeze.
My heart is hammering so hard I swear he can hear it through the wood. This is the moment. The point of no return.
No more running.
I knock.
The door opens before my knuckles ever make contact.
Eli stands there barefoot, jeans worn soft at the knees, an old t-shirt hanging loose over his shoulders. No boots. No armor. Just him, caught off-guard in a way that makes my chest tighten.
We stare at each other. One second. Two. Three.
His hand tightens on the door handle. For a heartbeat I think he might close it.
Then something in his expression shifts — not softening, just resignation. Like he already decided how this ends and made peace with it.
I swallow. "Can I come in?"
The pause stretches long enough that my stomach drops. Long enough that I'm sure this is where he says no.
Then he steps back. Doesn't say yes. Doesn't look at me when he does it. He just makes space.
I take it.
The door closes behind me with a quiet finality that echoes through my ribs. The cabin smells the same — wood and soap and something faintly him. Familiar in a way that makes my chest ache, and foreign in the way anything does after you've stayed away too long.
We end up standing six feet apart in the living room. The distance feels intentional. Measured.
He crosses his arms, leaning back slightly like he's bracing himself. He doesn't offer me a seat. Doesn't ask why I'm here. Doesn't soften the moment in any way.
He just waits.
Every version of what I practiced on the drive evaporates. The careful phrasing. The soft edges. None of it survives the way he's looking at me.
He's not going to help me. He's not going to meet me halfway or make this easier. If I'm here, I have to own it. All of it.
