Tomorrow will come whether I'm ready or not.
The ranch doesn't pause for unresolved history. The cattle don't care about what's been said or left unsaid. They need calm hands and steady movement, and I can give them that.
What I can't give is certainty.
Then I hear it—boots on gravel, moving fast. The barn door swings open before I can turn.
Hazel comes in like she's made a decision—purposeful, carrying the energy of the ride with her. Her hair is loose, wind-tossed, strands catching against her jaw and neck. Dirt on her boots. Color high in her cheeks from the cold air, from motion, from something sharper burning behind her eyes.
She stands a few feet inside, hands on her hips, breathing hard.
I turn. And stop.
My gaze drops before I can stop it. The curve of her waist beneath her jacket. The way her jeans fit her hips like they were made for long days in the saddle. The way she's looking at me—alive in a way that hits me square in the chest.
Heat crawls up my neck. When my eyes lift again, she's watching me—knows exactly where I was looking.
My jaw tightens. My hands curl at my sides.
For a beat, neither of us speaks. The quiet stretches, heavy with everything between us. Years of shared space. Years of unfinished sentences. The weight of wanting something I can't let myself have.
For a second, I think she might lose her nerve. Something flickers across her face—the realization of how much this matters—but then her shoulders square. Resolve settles back into place.
I stay still. Waiting.
"Eli," she says.
My name in her mouth does something to me—always has.
"This needs to stop."
The words don't come with accusation, just certainty.
My jaw tightens, but I don't interrupt.
"I can't fix things here if we're not on the same side," she continues, voice firm.
The barn seems to hold its breath around us. The lantern hums softly. A horse shifts in its stall somewhere behind me.
I watch her, every instinct urging restraint even as something deep in my chest pulls taut, bracing for impact. She stands there, eyes locked on mine, waiting.
And for the first time since she came back, I'm not sure silence will be enough.
I want to let her back in. That's the truth of it—simple and dangerous. The wanting has always been the problem.
"I'm not pushing you away," I say finally. "I'm trying not to make it worse."
Her brows pull together. "By shutting me out?"
"By not pretending this is easy," I snap, then rein it in, breath tight. "You don't just come back and jump into the middle of things like nothing happened."
She takes that in. Really takes it in. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away.
"I didn't say nothing happened," she says. "I said I'm here now."
The words land heavier than she probably intends.
Here now. Like that's supposed to be enough.
