But that's not what I want. Not even close.
My chest tightens with the weight of their careful politeness, the way they're all trying so hard to be noble about something that feels anything but simple. The hesitation that flickers through me lasts only a heartbeat before resolve takes its place, solid and sure.
"I'd love to come with you," I say, my voice stronger than I expected, carrying more conviction than I knew I possessed. "If you don't mind having a city girl slow you down."
Something shifts in Beau's expression. A tension I didn't realize he was carrying releasing from his shoulders like a weight lifting.
Colt's grin becomes more genuine, less carefully controlled, and I catch something that might be relief in his green eyes.
I move to the counter where I left Gabriel's travel mug last night, filling it with fresh coffee before reaching for the container of chocolate chip cookies I'd baked while waiting for him to come home safe.
The domestic gesture feels important somehow, a way of showing him that what happened between us matters, that this isn't me pulling away or choosing someone else.
"I made these while you were out playing cops and robbers," I tell him softly, pressing the warm container into his hands along with the coffee. "Chocolate chip. Your favorite, right?"
Gabriel's expression gentles as he looks down at the offering, understanding exactly what I'm trying to communicate without words. When he looks back up at me, his blue eyes are warm with something that makes my knees go weak.
"Right," he says quietly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles where they rest against the container. "Thank you, sweetheart."
The simple words carry more weight than they should, and I can feel Colt and Beau watching this exchange with careful attention.
Not jealousy, exactly, but awareness.
Like they're filing away this moment, this proof that whatever's happening between the four of us isn't a zero-sum game where someone has to lose.
Gabriel steps closer, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek, and my breath catches when I realize what he's about to do.
In front of Colt and Beau, with their eyes on us, he leans down and kisses me.
Not a show of possession or territorial marking. Just tenderness, pure and deep, that leaves me breathless and aching.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces my lower lip once before he steps away, like he's memorizing the taste of me.
"Be careful today," he tells me, then turns to the other men with something that might be a challenge or might be acceptance. Hard to tell with Gabriel. "Both of you take care of her."
Colt raises his coffee mug in a mock salute, but his voice carries genuine warmth. "Always do, Sheriff."
Beau just nods once, a gesture of understanding passing between them that I can't quite read but feels significant, like they've just negotiated some kind of treaty.
Then Gabriel's gone, the sound of his truck starting up and pulling away leaving the three of us alone in the sudden quiet of his kitchen.
The silence feels different now, not awkward, exactly, but charged with possibility.
"Well," Colt says after a moment, draining his coffee in one long swallow like he's fortifying himself. "This should be interesting as hell."
Twenty minutes later, I'm settled in the passenger seat of Colt's truck, watching the Montana landscape roll past through the windshield like a living postcard. Behind us, Beau sits with Tyson sprawled across his lap, both of them wearing matching expressions of resigned acceptance that would be amusing if the tension in the cab wasn't thick enough to cut with a knife.
Colt's hands are steady on the wheel, knuckles white with the effort of staying casual, but I can see the way his jaw works like he's chewing on words he's not ready to say.
Every few minutes, his eyes flick to the rearview mirror to check on Beau, and I catch glimpses of some silent communication passing between them, the kind that comes from years of friendship, even damaged friendship.
"How's Dusty feeling?" I ask, twisting in my seat to break the tension. "Tyson would love a playdate today, wouldn't you, boy?"
"Good as new," Beau says, his voice gruff as he scratches behind the dog's ears. "Barely slowing him down. Tough as nails, that one."
"He's tougher than he looks," Colt adds, and I get the distinct feeling he's not talking just about the dog.
The silence that follows feels loaded with history, and I find myself studying both men from the corner of my eye.
