The fire crackled somewhere ahead of us, quiet but constant, throwing up sparks like tiny warnings into the dark. It lit up the edges of the field in gold and shadow, carving out just enough warmth to draw people near without ever letting the cold fully leave. But the only thing I could really hear was my own heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Like it didn't trust where I was.

We stood just off to the side, a few paces away from the rest of them—close enough to hear the laughter, but far enough that I didn't have to pretend. There was a looseness in their movements, a kind of ease I couldn't fake. The way they leaned into each other, heads tilted back, smiles soft around the fire's glow—I envied that. The way they weren't carrying anything.

I folded my arms, not for warmth. Just to hold myself in.

Everything felt too loud inside me. The past few weeks hadn't let up, not really. They just shifted shape—pain traded for exhaustion, worry wrapped in silence. And now here I was, standing under stars too wide to understand, wondering why it felt harder to be still than it did to bleed.

Colt's hand found the small of my back, and it didn't startle me—but it nearly undid me. That quiet pressure, barely there, like he was steadying something he knew better than to name out loud. I hadn't realized how close I was to coming apart until that moment, until his thumb brushed slow along the curve of my spine like he was reminding me I was still here. Still held.

I looked up at him.

The firelight caught the edge of his jaw, softening what the world had carved hard. His eyes were fixed on mine—not sharp, not searching, just... seeing. Seeing the way I'd gone quiet. The way I was holding my breath like maybe if I stayed still enough, the weight inside me wouldn't spill out. He didn't ask what was wrong. Didn't try to fill the silence with something neat. He just stood there, steady as earth, like he'd decided a long time ago that if I was going to break, it wasn't going to be alone.

"We need this," he said, voice low and even, like gravel settling in water. "You especially."

I tried to smile, but it didn't quite land. My mouth moved like it remembered how, but the feeling never reached the rest of me.

"A break," he added, softer now. "That's all it is."

But it wasn't just a break. We both knew that.

It was a choice—his, mine—to try and step outside of what had been eating us alive since the accident. To stand here in the middle of people laughing like they weren't bleeding, like they'd never had to hold someone's hand in a hospital bed and pretend it didn't matter if they let go.

He was trying. For me. The same way I'd tried for him in the weeks after the rodeo, when his body gave out before his pride did and the nights blurred into painkillers and tight-lipped exhaustion. I remembered sitting on the edge of his bed, smoothing the blanket flat while he stared past me like the world had stopped moving. I hadn't had words then either. Just quiet, and closeness, and whatever comfort could be offered without asking for anything in return.

"I don't even know if I remember how to have fun," I said, the words slipping out before I could stop them. They felt too raw, too vulnerable, a confession I hadn't intended to make. Half of me wanted to take it back, but the other half... it was just too tired to care.

Colt didn't flinch. He didn't try to make it light or say something that would bounce off the surface and make me smile for the sake of it. He just let the silence settle around my words like it had weight. Like it deserved space.

Then, low and even: "Then maybe it's time you do."

No push. No expectation. Just that quiet steadiness he carried in his bones. Like he was offering me something I didn't have to earn.

I stared out at the fire, at the way the flames caught on bits of dust in the air and turned them gold. I wanted to feel something—warmth, ease, anything that didn't come with a price—but mostly I felt tired. Tired in the kind of way that sinks deep and stays.

Still, I nodded.

"Alright."

It didn't feel like a choice. More like an agreement with something inside me I hadn't touched in a while. The part that wanted to let go. Even if it didn't know how.

Colt gave a quiet nod and started toward the fire, his hand still at my back, not guiding—just staying. Like a tether. And I let myself follow him, the distance between us and the others shrinking with every step, even as something in me kept bracing for the part where I wouldn't belong.

The light stretched long across the grass, licking at boots and folding over denim and half-lifted smiles. There was a rhythm to it all—chatter, laughter, the occasional clink of a bottle. Familiar, but far away. Like a memory I hadn't lived but had watched from some other version of myself.

Caleb spotted us first, lifting his drink high like we'd done something worth toasting. "Well, look who crawled out from under a stack of hay bales," he called, grin crooked. "Thought y'all got lost on the way."

I managed something close to a smile—thin and practiced. The kind you put on when folks are watching. It didn't feel like mine. Felt more like slipping into a jacket you haven't worn in years, stiff at the elbows, tight across the chest. Like trying to remember a version of yourself that used to belong in places like this.

Maybe that's what Colt felt every time he picked up the rope. Muscle memory fighting against what was no longer there. The echo of something once easy now just a reminder of what didn't come back.

The fire cracked loud and sudden, splitting the air like a whip. My shoulders jumped before I could stop them.

And Colt noticed—of course he did.

He didn't say anything, didn't draw attention to it, just shifted his weight closer to mine, his arm brushing mine with the barest nudge. Not a comfort, not quite. More like a tether—his way of saying I'm here. Stay with me.

Sean looked up from where he was crouched over the cooler, his expression softening when he caught sight of us. "Glad you made it," he said, voice low and easy, no teasing in it. Just kindness, plain and simple.

The smoke curled through the night air, thick and slow, tangled with something sweet—cider, maybe, or the last burn of cheap whiskey in someone's cup. It clung to my hair, my clothes, the hollow space just beneath my ribs. Folks around us laughed like it came easy, like they didn't have to reach through a wall to get to it. Their voices rose and fell, a rhythm I couldn't quite follow. Like music I didn't recognize anymore.

I felt Colt shift beside me, just a hair closer. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough that I could feel the warmth rolling off him like a tide, like he was trying to edge me back into the world with nothing but his nearness.

But the tension didn't leave me. Not with the fire, not with the laughter, not even with him. It had become something I carried like a second skin—tight in the joints, heavy in the chest. I knew he wanted me to let go. To breathe. To lean. But I didn't know how.

"Yeah, figured it was time for a change of pace," Colt said, his voice cutting through the air like it belonged there. Easy. Sure. Like he could blend into anything without losing himself. That was the difference between us—he didn't have to try. He just fit. The way water fits the shape of a glass. I'd always envied that about him.

Caleb leaned back in his chair, bottle tilted against his lip, grin curling wide. "'Bout time," he drawled. "Was startin' to think you two were turning into ghosts."

I opened my mouth, let a smile try to shape itself. It came out wrong—stiff at the corners, hollow in the middle. "Guess we're haunting different places now," I said, quiet but steady. The words tasted strange, like something I hadn't meant to admit.

Sean stood up from where he was crouched at the cooler, tossed a bottle underhand toward Colt, who caught it one-handed like it was nothing. I watched the motion, smooth and practiced, and I felt something shift in my chest. A memory of all the things he used to do without thinking. A

reminder of the things he still couldn't.

"Here," Sean said with a grin. "Figured you could use one. And Lemon—there's more in the cooler if you're up for it."

I let out a breath that might've passed for a laugh—soft, small—but it never made it to my chest. My fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the edge of the truck, like they were trying to burn off the charge that had settled beneath my skin.

Colt took a slow sip of his beer, his throat working as the bottle lowered. I felt his gaze before I saw it—quiet and steady, cutting through the noise like it knew what to look for. Like it always did. His hand rested loose against his thigh, fingers twitching once, then stilling—like he wanted to reach out, but knew I wasn't ready to be caught. And that restraint made me ache more than if he had.

The firelight danced against the hard line of his jaw, painting him in flickers of gold and shadow. And for one quiet second, with the crowd blurred out and the air thick with smoke and cold, I let myself pretend it was just us. That maybe the space between wasn't as wide as it sometimes felt.

Then Caleb, of course, broke the quiet.

"You two got a bet goin' on who's gonna crack first?" he asked, his grin all teeth and trouble. But there was something underneath it. Like maybe he saw more than he let on.

Colt didn't answer right away. Just tipped his chin toward me, smirk barely there, like it wasn't for them to see. His eyes stayed on mine—unflinching, unreadable—but I could feel the weight behind it. Not flirtation. Not even pride. Just knowing. Like he'd already seen every way I could break and decided it didn't scare him.

"Lemon doesn't crack," he said finally, voice low, certain. "Not when it matters."

And the way he said it—slow, steady, like he wasn't just defending me but reminding me who I was—it landed somewhere deep, right where all the sharp things lived. He didn't say it to impress anyone. He just said it because it was true. And because he knew I needed to hear it.

I raised a brow, lips tugging into something halfway between a challenge and a shield. "Is that so?"

He just looked at me—calm, sure, the flicker of something warmer catching at the corner of his mouth. "Always has been."

It was nothing. And it was everything. That quiet faith of his, offered so simply it almost hurt to hold.

Caleb let out a low whistle, dragging the neck of his bottle across his knee like he needed something to do with his hands. "Well, hell," he muttered. "Y'all sure you're not already married?"

That pulled a soft laugh from Sean, who cracked open another beer and leaned against the tailgate. "Feels like we're just sittin' front row to the slowest damn love story in Wyoming."

Heat crept up the back of my neck before I could stop it, but I didn't let it reach my face. I just crossed my arms tight across my chest and leaned back against the truck, trying to play it casual. Trying not to let them see how close their words landed. "You boys always this bored, or just lookin' for ways to stir the pot?"

Caleb tipped his beer in mock salute, eyes glinting like he already knew the answer. "Both."

I opened my mouth—half a retort, half a breath—but Colt cut in before I could find the words.

"That's enough," he said, quiet but firm. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. It was the kind of tone that settled a room without asking permission. "We came for the fire. Not the commentary."

His eyes didn't leave them, but his hand shifted closer to mine, knuckles brushing like a silent apology—for the teasing, for the eyes, for the fact that this part of us, whatever it was, was already on full display. Without us even knowing what it truly was.

Sean raised his hands, all grin and ease. "Alright, alright," he said. "We'll shut up."

The laughter softened. The conversation shifted. But the weight didn't leave me—not really. It still sat low in my ribs, curling around the place where tension lived. I needed to move. To break the moment before it swallowed me whole.

"I think I'll grab that drink now," I said, too quietly for how hard the words landed in my chest. My boots found the grass before I even finished speaking.