She fought for this place—and for me—long before I deserved it.
And I won’t be a fool any longer pretending I don’t see what’s right in front of me.
I back the truck up and head toward the ranch, dust kicking up behind me as I drive faster than I should. I don’tknow what I’m going to say when I get there—or even how I’m supposed to say it—but I know I can’t keep doing this.
Hiding. Avoiding. Letting things rot until it’s too late.
I need to do better. If not for Sloane, then for myself. This version of me—the one who’s always angry, always shutting down, always convinced the world is out to take something from him—that isn’t who I want to be anymore. It isn’t who I was meant to be.
When I reach the ranch, I cut the engine and don’t give myself time to think. If I stop now, I’ll talk myself out of it. I slam the truck door shut and head straight for the house, my boots pounding against the porch steps as I shove the door open hard enough to rattle it on its hinges.
I take the stairs two at a time, my chest tight, my thoughts racing. I slow only when I reach her door, stopping just short of barging in like I have every other time I’ve handled things wrong.
I knock.
Her voice floats back, soft and distant, and it hits me harder than any accusation ever could. I drag in a breath, steadying myself, and push the door open.
The sight stops me cold.
Her suitcase is open on the bed. Clothes are folded neatly inside, others stacked beside it, waiting their turn.Something twists painfully in my chest as the reality settles in—this isn’t a threat or a bluff. She’s preparing to leave.
“You’re leaving,” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Yeah, I filed the paperwork last night to place the piece of land on the market. I don’t imagine it’ll be on there for long, so I figured I’d get a head start,” she says nonchalantly, like she isn’t dismantling my entire world with a single sentence.
I sigh deeply and lean against the doorframe. Not just late—too late, the kind of late that comes after damage has already been done and apologies start sounding like excuses.
“You were right,” I say a moment later.
Her hands still, like even hearing it costs her something.
“I followed the pipe to the development site. It goes underground as soon as you reach the start of the construction.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into my voice.
“You were right about everything, actually, and I’m a jackass for not listening to you.”
But instead, she exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath for days.
“I didn’t want to be right,” she says softly, tossing a folded shirt into the open suitcase before sitting down onthe edge of the bed. Her shoulders sag, like she’s carrying more than just this decision. More than just the weight of leaving.
She looks exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. She isn’t relieved. She isn’t vindicated. She’s worn down.
It hits me then that this isn’t the fatigue of a bad night or a hard week. It’s cumulative. Layered. The kind that comes from carrying the same weight alone for too long, from being forced to prove your worth every single day until you don’t have the energy to want anything anymore.
“I know you didn’t,” I reply, my voice quieter now. I look away, shame curling tight in my chest.
“What made you check?” she asks. Her tone isn’t accusing—only tired. Curious. Like she’s trying to understand instead of attack, even now.
“After you told me about your dad,” I say finally. “Something shifted. Hearing it then—knowing what he gave up, what he did for this place—it reframed everything I thought I understood.” I swallow.
“I realized if he could come out here and do all that for my family, maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
She lets out a short laugh—sharp, humorless—and turns back to the suitcase. The sound slices deeper than if she’d yelled.
“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, genuinely confused, even though part of me already knows the answer.
“No, Gage Hollis,” she snaps without looking at me. “Because you never do anything wrong.”
The sarcasm hits like a slap. It stings worse because it’s earned.
