Because I know how this goes.
Five years ago, I let myself touch her. Thought it meant something.
The next morning, she was gone.
I sit up before the memory can dig in deeper, boots already halfway on, because staying still gives it room.
The ranch is quiet in that early-morning way that feels earned. No music. No voices. Just the low creakof boards and the distant shuffle of horses shifting in their stalls. I like it better like this. Before people. Before thoughts.
I head straight for the trailers.
They've been sitting too long. Dust filmed thick over the metal, tires half a breath from flat. The sight of them twists something in my chest I don't have time to examine. We used to haul out all the time. Used to circle dates on the calendar instead of crossing them off.
That was before everything else took priority.
I grab the hose and start checking pressure, crouched low, hands already dirty. The air smells like dust and old leather. Familiar. Solid. This I can fix.
We'll need these soon enough. Fall Classic or something before. Eyes bring interest, and interest brings boarders, and boarders keep the ranch breathing. We screw this up and it's another door quietly closing. Ranch first. Always.
I move through the tack room methodically, laying everything out the way I remember it being done. Saddles, bridles, clean pads—anything frayed gets set aside. Anything questionable gets replaced. No shortcuts.
That's when her voice slips in where it doesn't belong.
Not real—not yet—just memory.
Hazel laughing in the truck. Hazel teasing me about my dancing. Hazel pressed against me on the porch, warm and sure, like nothing had ever ended.
Like five years didn't happen.
My stomach drops.
She didn't say she was staying.
I tighten a cinch strap until my hands ache, then loosen it a notch because too tight breaks things just as fast as too loose. The lesson sticks. Always has.
I don't ask for what won't be offered.
That's the rule now.
The door creaks behind me and I don't look up. I already know who it is. I can feel the shift in the air, the way the space fills without sound.
My hands still on the bridle.
Last night rushes back—her mouth under mine, the way she gasped into the kiss, how her body felt pressed against the door.
But underneath that is older memory. Stronger. The kind that lives in your hands and won't let go.
The weight of her. The sounds she made. The way she fit against me.
I force my hands to keep moving.
"You're up early," Hazel says.
Neutral. Easy. Like last night didn't happen the way it did.
"Plenty to do," I answer, keeping my focus on the tack in front of me.
I still haven't looked at her. Can't. Not yet.
