She walks closer, boots crunching softly over the dirt, stopping just outside the rail. I feel her there the same way I always do. A shift in the air. A change in weight.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The Cole encounter sits between us—unspoken but present. His threats. The way I stepped in. The conversation we said we'd have later.
Later.
Not now.
She leans her forearms on the fence, watching the colt. "He giving you trouble?"
"Has been all day," I say. "Wants to do everything except what I'm asking."
She smiles, faint but real. "Sounds familiar."
That gets me. Not enough to laugh, but enough that the tension eases a notch.
"You want in?" I ask.
She doesn't hesitate. "Yeah."
I unlatch the gate and step back so she can enter first, watching the way she moves. Careful, but not tentative. Aware of the animal without flinching from him. I clock it all, the same way I always do when someone steps into a pen. Fear shows itself fast if it's there.
She doesn't have it.
"What's his issue?" Hazel asks.
"Trust," I say simply. "Same as always."
I hand her the lead, keeping hold of the line between us. "Don't try to control him. Just keep him with you."
She nods, adjusting her grip. The colt snorts, head tossing, hooves scraping as he tests the pull. She holds firm, but not stiff. I watch her shoulders, the set of her spine, the way she matches the colt's movement instead of fighting it outright.
"Good," I say. "Let him feel you there."
She does. For a few seconds, it works.
Then the colt spooks. Not full panic, just enough of a sideways jolt to catch her off guard. The rope burns across her palm as she stumbles, boots sliding in the dirt. I move without thinking, closing the distance in two strides.
"Hazel," I say, voice even. "Don't let go."
She doesn't. She digs in instead, breath sharp, surprise flashing across her face before determination replaces it. The colt rears slightly, front hooves lifting before slamming back down.
She loses her balance.
I catch her at the waist, one arm firm around her middle, the other steadying the rope with practiced ease. I don't yank. Don't rush. I just anchor us both until the colt settles, his movements slowing as the tension bleeds off him in small, reluctant increments.
"Easy," I murmur again.
She sucks in a breath, and for a second we're locked there. Her back against my chest, my arm solid around her ribs. The heat of her cuts through denim and cotton like they're nothing at all.
I can smell her. Dust and sweat and something underneath that's just Hazel. Something I'd recognize anywhere.
I feel the moment her pulse jumps, fast and startled, under my forearm. Or maybe that's mine. Hard to tell when we're this close.
Then she steadies. Her breathing evens out, but she doesn't pull away immediately.
Neither do I.
