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Sterling smiled, a full one this time, and it was like looking into the sun. Equally hot and equally dangerous. “You already threatened to haunt me. You’re committed.”

“That’s not binding,” I argued. “There was no notary present.”

He stepped into the waiting car, calm as ever, and then held out a hand to me. His palm was open, a quiet invitation that felt far more intimate than such a simple offer should have. I still stared at it for too long, old instincts screaming at me not to take it.

There were other instincts, newer and more reckless, that were screaming louder, though.

Those won, as my fingers slid into his.

Sterling’s hand closed over mine, swallowing it easily, and the contact sent a slow, undeniable heat traveling up my arm. He braced me as I climbed into the small metal seat, and I sat, my knees bumping his as my back pressed against the thin pad behind me.

He didn’t let go.

And I didn’t pull away.

The employee swung the bar down, the metal safety bar thudding into place across our laps. He flicked the latch with a practiced movement, then stepped back and waved the operator on.

The car lurched.

“Oh,” I muttered as the ground began to tilt away. “I hate this. I hate all of this.”

“You’re fine, baby,” Sterling murmured soothingly.

My head snapped toward him. “I—I’m not your baby,” I sputtered, heat climbing up my neck.

He didn’t bother arguing. He just smirked.

The wheel paused to let the next set of riders on, our car dangling a third of the way up. The wind was stronger up here, brushing against my cheeks, lifting the tiny wisps of hair around my face. Below us, the carnival spread out like a toy town. The arena lights glowed off to the side, the dirt circle of the rodeo ring a pale patch against the darker ground.

“Look,” he said quietly. And I did.

It was…beautiful.

The string lights. The rides. The distant smear of stars above the mountains. The way the town lights of Blackwood flickered out along the valley like a scattered handful of fireflies.

My chest loosened a fraction.

“You afraid of a lot of things?” he asked softly.

“Yes,” I said without thinking. Then, “No. I don’t—” I let out a breath. “I used to be fearless,” I whispered. “A person who didn’t overthink anything. Who could do anything. Then my marriage…” I swallowed.

“It taught me what real fear feels like. And after enough days of that, it just…settled under my skin like it planned to stay forever.”

The words slipped out, and I let them, because they somehow felt cathartic rather than embarrassing.

He turned his head, studying me. “You were the one who left him.”

You could say that.

“Is the fact that I’m using the motel shampoo a giveaway?” I joked weakly.

He didn’t even blink. “Sienna,” he said quietly. My name sounded careful on his tongue. “It sounds like you walked away from something that was killing you.”

My throat tightened. He had no idea how true those words were.

“Anyone would have,” I said.

“That’s not true.” The certainty in his voice was unsettling and strangely steadying at the same time. “Most people never make it out.”