It’s lonely.
“Sloane, I am so sorry for how I treated you. Not just for not believing you, but that day in the barn haunts me. I feel sick to my stomach, knowing I walked out and left you like that,” he says, his face contorting in what looks like physical pain.
I place the beer on the coffee table and reach out, my fingers brushing his jaw before I still myself. I want to touch him—to ease the pain written all over his face—but wanting doesn’t mean I should.
“Thank you,” I say instead, quietly.
He frowns. “For what? All I’ve done is hurt you.”
“For telling me the truth,” I reply. “For not pretending it didn’t happen.”
His breath stutters, and for a moment, neither of us moves. The room feels smaller, the candlelight throwing shadows that flicker and stretch. He leans closer, slow enough that I have time to stop it. To step away.
I don’t.
But I don’t meet him either.
My hand presses to his chest, stopping him inches from my mouth. The heat between us is sharp and electric—but I hold my ground.
“Not yet.”
His eyes search mine, regret and understanding clear. “I understand.”
I swallow, forcing my voice to be steady even as my body betrays me. “You don’t get to fix this with words, Gage. Or apologies. I need to see it. I need to know this isn’t just tonight.”
He nods once. No argument. No reaching for me again. “Then I’ll show you.”
The promise hangs between us—quiet, heavy, unfinished.
I step back, putting space between us before I lose the resolve I fought so hard to keep. My heart is racing, my skin still warm where his heat lingers.
He picks up his beer, his jaw tight, and takes a long drink. “I’ll get some sleep,” he says finally.
“Me too,” I reply.
We don’t say anything else. We don’t need to.
As I head upstairs, I know one thing for certain—this wasn’t forgiveness.
It was a line.
And whether he crossed it the right way would be proven by what he did next—not what he said.
sixteen
Gage
I’m halfway to Buckley before it hits me that I didn’t argue with her once.
Not about the paperwork. Not about the route. Not even about the coffee she refused when I offered to stop.
Sloane sits beside me in the truck, one of my hats pulled low over her hair, the brim shadowing her eyes as she flips through the folder on her lap. Every page is tabbed. Labeled. Cross-checked. She moves through it with quiet efficiency, like this is just another task to manage—not something tied to months of tension and mistrust.
She doesn’t ask if I’m ready.
Doesn’t prompt.
Doesn’t push.
