He stood up, still a little unsteady, but already transforming back into the guy who could probably carry a truck bed on his back. As we made our way to the old camp stove at the end of the barn, I realized that maybe, for the first time in years, someone had actually noticed I was there.
That I was real.
It was a weird feeling, but I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t know what to expect from a man who could fold in on himself like that and then offer coffee a few minutes later, but Macon O’Reilly didn’t seem to care about how things were supposed to go.
He poured out the grounds with military precision, scooping water from a battered thermos, and set the camp stove sputtering to life like he’d done it a thousand times in worse places than this.
We sat on hay bales side by side, our backs against the splintery barn wall. I hugged the horse blanket around me, but my clothes were still damp and clung to my thighs.
The chill should have bothered me, but sitting next to Macon—still radiating heat, even after the adrenaline crash—I felt weirdly safe. The only sounds were the whirring of the little gas flame, the crackle of rain on the barn roof, and the steady, heavy breathing of the man beside me.
He handed me a chipped mug first. “Watch the handle,” he said. “Gets hot.”
I took it with both hands. “Thanks.”
We drank in silence for a while. The coffee was strong enough to peel paint, but it tasted good—maybe because it was real, or maybe just because it was here, now.
I watched his hands, fascinated by the way they moved: sure, economical, no wasted motion. They reminded me of Dad’s, if Dad’s had ever learned to build instead of destroy.
After a while, I started talking, just to fill the space. “There’s one,” I said, nodding toward the goat pen, “she head-butts the others out of the way at feeding time. Takes after my family.”
Macon grunted, a half-laugh. “You name them?”
“Mostly after celebrities. That one’s Beyoncé. The one with the limp is Ruth Bader Ginsburg.” I waited, braced for the mockery that usually followed.
Instead, Macon smirked. “The Notorious RBG. Fitting.” He sipped his coffee and watched the goats through the slats. “Never pegged you for a livestock guy.”
“Me either,” I said. “But they don’t care who your dad is, or if you’re good at sports, or if you… you know.”
He looked at me sideways. “If you what?”
“Nothing. Just—if you’re weird.” I shrugged and pretended to study my mug.
He didn’t push, just nodded, as if that made perfect sense.
The storm outside kept rolling, but the thunder was a duller, more distant kind. In here, with the propane blue and the animals dozing, the night felt stitched together with small, careful silences.
Somewhere in the middle of my second cup, I realized our shoulders were touching. Not a big deal, really, but it was the first time in months I hadn’t been flinching from contact.
Macon didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t mind.
His body heat was slow and steady, radiating through the worn canvas of his shirt. I was hyper-aware of every point where we touched: arm, knee, the line of thigh pressed against mine.
I was so used to being the observer, the invisible Steele, that I almost missed the way his posture changed. He angled toward me, shoulders squared, as if he was lining up a shot and I wasthe target. His eyes were dark and intent, not quite hungry but definitely something.
I swallowed, and the movement caught his attention. He inhaled, slow and deliberate, and for the first time, I saw the shift—the alpha in him, awake and alert, assessing me with a new kind of focus.
My skin prickled. Not from the cold this time.
“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, almost a growl.
“Yeah,” I said, though my heart was slamming against my ribs. “Just—nervous, I guess.”
Macon set his mug down on the floor and wiped his palms on his jeans. He turned fully to face me, and for a second, I thought he was going to lecture me or laugh, but he didn’t. Instead, he leaned in, so close I could smell sweat and aftershave and something almost metallic underneath.
He didn’t touch me, not yet. Just waited, eyes flicking from my lips to my eyes and back again. It felt like an invitation, or a test, and I had no idea how to pass it.
