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I groaned and covered my face. "They're acting like I kicked a puppy."

She was quiet for a moment. "Well, didn’t you?"

I lowered my hands. "Mom!"

"I'm just saying."

"I didn't kick Damon."

"Not with your foot, no. But if broken hearts came with cones, he’d be wearing one."

I stared at her and contemplated grabbing the throw pillow and screaming into it.

She reached for my hand. "Honey, I know you're scared."

"I'm not scared," I shot back defensively.

She raised an eyebrow.

Fine. I was terrified. But admitting that felt like opening a door I wasn't sure I could close.

"I don't understand why everyone is so invested." I sighed.

My mom lifted her cinnamon roll from the bag. “They’re invested because Damon is the one people call when their car won't start. When their roof leaks. When their kid needs a ride. When somebody needs cheering up."

How did my mom know that?

"He's spent his whole life taking care of everyone else." Her voice softened. "And I don't think anybody around here knows what to do now that he's the one hurting."

My chest ached. Because I knew. I knew she was right.

Damon did take care of people. He took care of me. He knew my coffee order without me telling him. My favorite movie. What wine I liked. That I hated mushrooms. He paid attention. He listened. He saw me. He showed up.

Always.

For two years, he'd shown up for me. And I’d let him.

I'd taken the coffees. Worn his jacket. Laughed at his jokes. Leaned on him when life got hard. I'd let myself get used to the comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, Damon would be there.

And every single time he'd gotten close enough to make me feel something real, I'd found another reason to step back. I'd called it being careful. I'd called it protecting myself. Maybe I'd just been protecting my fear.

Because somewhere along the way, I'd stopped wondering whether Damon would show up. I'd started counting on it. And I hadn't once stopped to consider what it was costing him.

Damon had disappeared. Not literally. In a town this small, a man couldn't sneeze without three people discussing his allergies.

But he disappeared from me. No teasing texts. No unexpected visits. No showing up with coffee and that crooked smile that made me forget how lungs worked. No flirting. No chasing.

I’d seen him around. It was impossible not to on the ranch. He was taking care of guests. Working cattle. Repairing equipment.

Working. Always working. And the worst part?

He wasn't punishing me. He was simply living his life. Without me in it.

I lasted nine days. Nine days of checking my phone incessantly. Nine days of looking out the window every time I heard gravel crunch. Nine days of realizing how much space one man could occupy in a life without ever officially being part of it.

I stood and my mom asked, “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.”