Eli's jaw works. He stares into the flames like they might give him an answer he's not finding on his own.
"You always could read the land better than anyone," he says quietly. "Even when we were kids."
The past tense lands heavier than it should. Like he's talking about someone who doesn't exist anymore.
But I'm right here,I want to say.I'm still me.
Except I'm not sure that's true.
"You remember that time we lost your dad's prize heifer?" I ask. "We were what, fifteen?"
His mouth curves. A real smile, brief but genuine. "Sixteen. And it wasn't lost. It got stuck in the ravine past Carson's property."
"You wanted to tell your dad. I made you wait."
"Because you were sure you could find her." He shakes his head, but there's something softer in it now. "Dragged me through half the county looking."
"We found her."
"We did." He pauses, then adds, "Took us all night. We fell asleep by the creek waiting for her to calm down enough to move."
The memory surfaces fully now. Both of us exhausted, covered in mud, his jacket draped over both our shoulders because I'd left mine behind. The stars overhead just like tonight. The way he'd kept watch even then, making sure I was warm enough, safe enough.
The way it had always been easy with him. Uncomplicated.
Until it wasn't.
"I miss that," I say before I can stop myself.
His eyes lift to mine across the fire.
The air between us shifts. Tightens.
"Miss what?" His voice is low. Careful.
Us,I want to say.When it was simple. When I didn't ruin everything by taking more than I could handle.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because he was there that night too. The night everything changed. The night I reached for him in the dark and he reachedback and for one perfect, terrible moment, I thought maybe I could stay.
And then the sun came up and I ran.
"I miss knowing what to say to you," I manage finally.
Something flickers across his face. Pain, maybe. Or recognition.
He stands abruptly, his shadow cutting long across the firelight.
"You should get some sleep," he says, and this time it sounds less like an order and more like self-preservation.
I nod. Stand. Brush the dirt from my jeans.
I make it three steps toward my tent before I hear him again.
"Hazel."
I turn.
