For a long moment, he says nothing.
Then, quietly: "Five years ago, I told you I loved you."
"I know."
"And you left before I woke up."
The words sit between us, old and sharp and still bleeding around the edges.
"I panicked," I say. It sounds small. It feels small.
"I waited for you." His voice strips down to nothing but truth. "Kept telling myself you just needed time." He pauses. "I went to Denver."
The words stop me cold. "What?"
"Six weeks after you left. I drove out there. Found your apartment." His eyes drop to the floor. "I saw you coming out of your building one morning. You were laughing at something on your phone. You looked lighter. Like a weight had been lifted."
"Eli—"
"I couldn't do it." His voice cracks. "Couldn't knock on your door and ask you to come back when you finally looked happy. So I got back in my truck and drove home."
The weight of that crashes into me. He was there. He saw me. And he left to protect me.
"I wasn't happy," I whisper. "I was surviving. There's a difference."
His eyes meet mine. "I didn't know that. All I saw was that leaving made you lighter. And I spent five years thinking I wasn'tenough. That if I'd been different, or better, or more — you would've stayed."
"That's not true."
"I know that now." His jaw tightens. "But that's what it felt like."
"I'm sorry I hurt you," I say, the words tumbling out. "I'm sorry I ran. I'm sorry I made you feel like you weren't enough when you were always more than enough."
He scrubs a hand over his face. When he looks back at me, his eyes are dark and tired and painfully clear.
"I can't do that again," he says.
"I know. I won't ask you to."
He exhales slowly. "So what does this look like?"
"I don't know yet," I say. "I just know I'm here."
He studies me. Not skeptical. Careful.
"You have a plan?"
"Work the ranch. Build the boarding business. Take on more clients. Maybe freelance consulting if we need the income." I take a breath. "Figure it out as I go."
"With me?"
"If you'll have me." I hold his gaze even though every instinct tells me to look away. "I'm staying, Eli. Whatever that looks like. However hard it gets. I'm not running again."
His jaw tightens.
"I can't promise I'll be perfect at—"
"I don't need perfect." His voice cracks. "I neverneeded perfect."
