I take a step toward her and reach for her arm, but she jerks away immediately, putting distance between us like I’m the one who might break her. Or maybe like she’s already broken enough.
“Just talk to me,” I say, my voice rougher now, stripped of anything resembling confidence.
She spins around, disbelief flashing across her face. “Now you want to talk?” Her voice cracks despite her effort to hold it steady.
“Where were you when I needed to talk months ago? Where were you the first time you fucked me? Or the second? And don’t even get me started on the third.”
She drags her hands through her hair, pacing now, the words spilling out faster, sharper, fueled by everything she swallowed before. “It’s just so convenient that the moment I tell you about my father, you suddenly decide to listen.”
“I’m just tired, Gage,” she says, her voice breaking as she says it again. “And I’m done.”
She meets my eyes again, and there’s no anger in them now—just resolve.
Not heat. Not fire. Just something firm and settled, like a door closing slowly but decisively.
“I’m done trying for someone who will always think I’m the enemy,” she says, and it lands like the final blow in a something I didn’t even realize I’d already lost.
I told her I see everything clearly now, but she still believes I’ll always see her as the threat. And maybe she’s right.
The realization digs deep, sharp and unforgiving. My feelings didn’t shift because of her—not really. They shifted because of what she told me about her father.
I trusted the story. I didn’t trust her.
Turns out, I was the one playing mind games all along.
Maybe I’ve gotten so used to being alone that it’s easier to let good things slip away than risk believing I deserve them.
I built my life around survival, not connection. Around endurance, not hope.
I’ve spent years convincing myself I earned every bad hand I was dealt—like pain was something to manage, not escape.
The ranch was the only constant I ever had.
And now it’s slipping through my fingers.
But somehow, that doesn’t hurt half as much as knowing Sloane is about to walk out that door.
Not because she doesn’t care—but because she’s finally tired of caring alone.
Isn’t that something?
“I’m sorry for everything,” I say quietly, the words barely more than breath. They feel small. Inadequate. I don’t even know who I’m apologizing to anymore—her, or myself, or the man I could have been if I hadn’t let fear make every decision for me.
That pain settles in my chest again—sharp and unfamiliar.
I didn’t feel it when my exes walked away. I didn’t feel it when I lost Uncle Sam.
But with Sloane… it’s different.
It feels like my heart is being ripped out and crushed beneath the heel of a good pair of cowboy boots—slow, merciless, and thorough.
I turn and walk out of the room when she doesn’t respond, leaving her to finish packing. The door clicks shut behind me, final and hollow, and I stop short, my hand still hovering near the frame like I might change my mind.
On the other side, I hear the quiet sound of her sobbing.
And it guts me.
Because that sound isn’t anger. It isn’t manipulation.
