My name crackled through the speakers, sharp and heavy, like the air itself was carrying the weight of it. The syllables sank into my bones, and suddenly the whole arena felt like it was holding its breath, waiting. The hum of the crowd swelled, pressing against my skin, but there was no thrill, no rush of adrenaline this time. Just the cold, sharp sting of something darker. Dread curling low in my stomach, twisting like a knife.

I pressed my heels into Honey's sides, a light nudge, and she responded with the ease of muscle and memory. Her hooves stirred the dirt beneath us, the sound of it muffled by the pulse thundering in my ears.

I glanced at the crowd, catching glimpses of faces blurred together in the harsh light of the afternoon sun. But I couldn't focus on them. I couldn't afford to. I forced my gaze forward, pushing everything else out of my mind. The murmurs, the stares, the whispers of failure pressed closer, wrapping around my throat like a noose.

And all I could think of was him. Dad.

How he'd strode into these arenas with that unshakable calm, like the world could burn around him and it wouldn't faze him. He'd give me that look, half grin, half wink, as if nothing was ever on the line but a good story to tell later. Fearless. Invincible. I'd spent years trying to mimic that calm. But it never fit me the way it did him.

I breathed in, forcing the memories aside, shoving them into the box where I kept everything I wasn't ready to face. It was just me and Honey now. It always had been. And in this moment, that had to be enough.

The buzzer sliced through the noise, a sharp, piercing sound that shattered the stillness. And in that split second, the world vanished.

Honey surged beneath me, her muscles rippling like a coiled spring finally let loose. The dirt kicked up beneath her hooves, the familiar rhythm of her strides syncing with my heartbeat. Everything else faded—colors, sounds, the weight of a thousand expectations dissolved into the wind.

We took the first barrel clean, the turn tight and smooth, just as we'd practiced for hours, for days, for years. I leaned into her, trusting her completely, feeling the pull of gravity as we pivoted and straightened, already setting our sights on the second barrel. Faster now. Always faster.

The second barrel loomed closer, but I was already ready. Honey was already ready. I shifted my weight just enough to let her breathe through the turn, her body gliding around it like she was made of air, like there was no resistance at all.

Only then, as we charged toward the third, did the world start to creep back in. A faint murmur, the roar of the crowd, distant but building. A low rumble that matched the thunder in my chest. The third barrel, the one that could break everything if we lost focus for even a second, came rushing toward us. But there was no hesitation. Honey didn't falter. She gathered beneath me, her power coiling once more as we hit the turn hard. Dust rose, swirling around us as we sliced through the air, faster than I expected, faster than I'd ever felt.

The world spun, but we didn't. We were steady. Focused. The ground beneath us vanished, the finish line rushing forward like a promise made in blood, and there was nothing but the dirt, the wind, the rhythm of Honey's heart echoing in my bones.

And then—it was over.

We crossed the line, and the world crashed back into place all at once. The roar of the crowd slammed into me, the heat of the sun pressing down on my skin like it was trying to brand me. Honey's breathing slowed beneath me, her sides slick with sweat, but she was calm, as if this had been just another run.

But it wasn't.

A new record.

The words thrummed in my head, unreal, almost ghostly. The arena tilted in my vision, the roar of the crowd swelling, wrapping around me like a thick, smothering blanket. This should've been a victory. The kind of moment I imagined back when Dad would hoist me up on the railing to watch his rides, when everything still seemed possible. But instead of triumph, there was only a quiet buzz under my skin. A tension I couldn't quite shake, as if something was still waiting to break.

At the exit gate, the familiar faces started closing in—local cowboys, ranch hands, people who'd watched me ride since I was a kid. They'd seen me a hundred times, but today, their smiles held something different. A sharper edge, like they'd been waiting for this. Like it was their victory too.

Jake Harland stepped forward first, that wide grin splitting his face, too many teeth gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

"That was a hell of a ride, Lemon. Fastest I've seen all season."

I offered him a nod, polite but distant, the smile I gave barely touching my lips. "Thanks, Jake."

His words felt hollow and before I could make sense of it, Tommy Blake cut in, voice easy, carrying that familiar drawl that always made me think of Rem.

"Yeah, that third turn—you made it look easy."

"Thanks," I murmured again, the word slipping from my mouth without thought, without weight. Their voices were just background noise to the thrumming in my veins, the lingering echo of the ride still humming in my bones. My body was still buzzing, my mind caught somewhere between the dirt beneath me and the blur of barrels spinning in my vision.

And then I felt it—a pull, unmistakable, like a thread tugging at something deep inside. Before I even saw him, I knew.

Rem.

I glanced up, and there he was, leaning against the rail like he'd been waiting for this, waiting for me. That crooked grin on his face—the same one that had always had a way of unraveling me when I least expected it. His arms were crossed, his posture all relaxed confidence, but it was his eyes that hit me straight in the chest.

Pride.

It wasn't in the crowd's roar, not in the numbers flashing on the clock. It was in the way he looked at me, like he knew this moment was coming all along. Like he'd been waiting for it as much as I had. For the first time since the buzzer went off, I felt it—warmth. The kind that wrapped around your heart and made the world fade just a little.

Damn him.

I couldn't help it—I smiled. Not a big one, just a small tug at the corner of my lips, but it was real. I dipped my head slightly, a silent acknowledgment, a language we'd spoken for years. We didn't need words. We never did.

Without another glance, I turned, leading Honey back toward her temporary stall. Her muscles twitched beneath her coat, slick with sweat but steady. She'd done her job, and she knew it. Now ready for the rest that followed a run like that. I wished I could say the same for myself.

My heart was still thudding, my mind spinning in too many directions, but I tried to anchor myself in the rhythm of Honey's hooves sinking into the dirt. There was comfort in the routine, in the simple, familiar act of caring for her. My hand glided down her neck, feeling the slick sweat beneath my palm.

We reached the stall, and I looped the reins around the post, giving her a soft pat on the neck.

"Good girl," I murmured, my voice low and intimate, meant only for her. This part had always been mine. No matter how many offers I got, I refused to let anyone else take this from me.

But just as I was beginning to lose myself in the motions, a voice cut through the quiet, smooth and steady.

"I told y'all she'd do it. Easiest money I've made all week."

The brush stilled in my hand, hovering mid-stroke over Honey's back, my fingers tightening around the handle. There was something about his voice—too calm, like the slow, deliberate pull of a bowstring, ready to snap. It sent a ripple through me, stirring under my skin. I turned, already bracing for whatever was coming, and there he was.

Standing by the fence with the easy confidence of someone who'd never had to doubt his place in the world. Broad shoulders squared, his Stetson sitting low on his brow, a hint of brown hair curling out beneath it, sun-kissed and wind-tossed. A couple of ranch hands loitered nearby, their chuckles dying down as my gaze locked onto his.

No smirk. No cocky tilt to his mouth. Just that quiet intensity, steady and deliberate, like he was taking in more than he let on.

My grip tightened around the brush, fingers turning white against the handle. "What was that?" The words came out colder than I intended.

The ranch hands around him exchanged glances, muttering some half-hearted excuses as they wandered off, leaving the two of us standing in the fading light. Alone, but not.

He pushed off the fence, every movement slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to make his way toward me. The sun was sinking low, casting long shadows over the dirt, but his presence felt like the last remnant of daylight, refusing to fade with the setting sun.

"I told them you'd break the record," he said, voice low and steady. Not boasting, not admiring. Just stating a fact, like it had always been a foregone conclusion.

I straightened, squaring my shoulders as my eyes narrowed on him. "You bet on me?" The irritation simmered, bubbling just beneath the surface of my skin. I couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen too much, assumed too much.

He stopped a few feet away, his eyes—steady, unreadable—holding mine with an intensity that made my stomach clench. For a second, I nearly forgot to breathe.

He didn't miss a beat. "Not against you," he said with that maddening calmness. "That would've been stupid."

The breath I'd been holding escaped in a slow exhale, but it didn't relieve the tension winding tighter and tighter in my chest. He stood there, just close enough now that the scent of leather, sweat, and something undeniably him—a mix of earth and sun—settled around me. Grounding me. Aggravating me.

My grip tightened around the brush. "You don't know anything about me."

His brow arched, slow and deliberate, like he was daring me to push him further. He shifted his stance, calm and unbothered, as though the weight of the world didn't press on his shoulders the way it did on mine.

"Didn't have to," he said, voice low and unhurried. "I saw enough. You were a safe bet."

The words landed with more force than they should've, cutting deeper than I was willing to admit. Like he wasn't just talking about the barrels, but about me. As if he already knew the truth I'd been fighting to hide.

And damn him for that—for the calm certainty in his voice, for making me feel seen in a way no one else had in a long time. Not even Rem.

My jaw clenched, and I forced my voice to stay steady. "Safe bet?" I echoed, my words sharp enough to bite. "You make a habit of betting on people you don't know?"

His eyes flickered, just a glint of something beneath the surface, something unreadable but undeniably there. He took a step closer, the space between us shrinking, though he didn't touch me. Didn't need to. His presence was enough, thickening the air, making it hard to breathe.

"Not people," he said softly, the hint of something more in his voice, something that pulled tight in my chest. "Just you."