My chest feels tight—not from fear, but from the sudden, overwhelming urge to say more. To fill the silence with everything I haven't known how to say. To ask him how he is. To tell him I've missed his friendship more than I allowed myself to admit in years.
But he's made it clear that's not what he wants.
So I don't.
I reach for Blaze's halter, my fingers steady even as my pulse picks up. Blaze snorts softly, bumping my shoulder with his nose like he's reminding me I'm not alone.
"Easy," I murmur, smoothing a hand down his neck.
The horse leans into my touch, solid and warm, grounding me in the present. I focus on him deliberately, on the familiar ritual, on the comfort of something that never left.
Eli doesn't comment on my movements or ask where I'm headed. He just stays where he is, working the board with quiet precision, giving me room in the way he always has.
I lead Blaze out, the sound of his hooves echoing softly against the packed dirt. I saddle him quickly, movements practiced, muscle memory taking over. My body remembers this place even if my heart feels unsure.
When I swing up into the saddle and settle myself, the familiar weight grounding me, I glance back.
He's already turned away, back to his work. But the set of his shoulders is rigid, controlled, like he's holding something in that wants to break loose.
I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. What I do know is that my hands aren't quite steady on the reins, and it has nothing to do with the ride ahead.
The land opens up as I ride out, wide and unguarded, the sky stretching endlessly above me. The rhythm of Blaze's gait soothes something restless inside me, each stride pulling me farther from the barn, from the emotions I wasn't prepared to feel all at once.
Out here, I can think.
I let the wind sting my cheeks and tug loose strands of hair from my braid. Let the smell of grass and earth fill my lungs. Iloosen my grip on the reins, trusting Blaze to know the path as well as I do.
My mind drifts despite my efforts to keep it anchored.
I remember Eli standing beside me at my father's funeral. Not in front, not hovering. Just there. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him through my black coat when the wind picked up. He didn't speak much. He didn't try to say the right thing.
He just stayed.
When my knees had gone weak at the graveside, he'd shifted closer without a word, his shoulder solid against mine. A quiet brace. A promise of balance. I hadn't leaned on him fully, but I'd known I could.
That had been the kind of closeness we shared. Easy. Unnamed. Deep enough to matter.
The memory settles in my chest as I ride, heavy and warm and painful all at once.
I don't want things to stay like this. The distance. The sharp edges. The way everything unsaid presses between us.
I guide Blaze along the lower fence line, letting the ride ease the anxiousness that's been sitting in my chest for days. By the time I turn back toward the ranch, the sun has started its descent, my thoughts loosened into something manageable. The ride helped. I'd forgotten how good it felt—the simple, physical rightness of it. The way my thoughts quieted the farther I went.
When I step out onto the porch that evening, the anxiousness in my chest has settled. Not disappeared—just eased, like something that had finally been given room to breathe.
The sky has deepened into a soft wash of lavender and blue, the last light stretching thin across the land. The air has cooled, carrying the faint scent of dust and grass. I rest my hands on the porch rail and let myself be still.
Then I notice the light.
It glows warm and steady from the barn, cutting through the dusk.
Eli.
I don't overthink it. The thought comes fully formed and certain: It's now or never.
I'm done pretending time alone will fix what's been broken between us. Done waiting for the tension to dissolve on its own.
I miss my best friend. And I want him back.
