Because if I look at her now, I'll remember too much. And if I remember, I'll want.
I already know how that story ends.
She steps further in. I hear it in the soft scuff of her boots, the pause she takes like she's reading the room. She's good at that. Always was.
"Looks like you're getting ready to haul," she says.
"Just checking gear."
"Making sure it's ready?"
I nod once. Still not looking at her.
Silence stretches. Not awkward. Charged. The kind that presses instead of fades.
"I was going to start working the colt," she says finally. Practical. On task. Like this is just another morning.
"I've got it," I say, too quick.
Her breath changes. Small thing. But I catch it.
"I didn't say you didn't," she replies.
I glance up then. She's standing near the doorway, arms crossed, expression calm but watchful. Not defensive. Not retreating.
The old rhythm hums between us, immediate and dangerous.
"Help me load the tack," I say.
It's not an invitation. It's a decision.
She doesn't hesitate. Just steps forward and grabs the other end of the trunk like she's always known where to stand. We lift together, muscle memory slotting into place like it never left.
That's what scares me.
We work without talking for a few minutes, moving around each other with practiced ease. She brushes past me reachingfor a bridle, close enough I catch the scent of her—soap and something else I remember from last night when she was pressed against me.
My jaw tightens.
I step to the side, putting distance between us. Not enough. Never enough in a space this small.
She knows where everything goes. Knows what I'll check twice. Knows which straps I'll trust and which ones I won't.
And I know how her mouth tastes. How her hands feel fisted in my shirt.
I shouldn't know that again. Shouldn't want to know it again.
But I do.
"You think the weather's going to hold?" she asks.
I glance outside. The sky's already starting to bruise at the edges, clouds stacked higher than they should be this early.
"Forecast says it will," I say.
She hums, unconvinced. "It's shifting faster than they said."
I don't respond. I don't want to give the worry more space than it already has.
