It was too soft to be a threat, but it crawled under my skin like one anyway. Feminine. Unbothered. Carried like silk through the trees—light, lilting, just a little too smooth. It didn't belong to this forest. Didn't belong to this night. And sure as hell didn't belong to me.

At first, I thought I'd imagined it. The kind of sound your mind pulls out of shadows when it's tired and searching and afraid to admit it. But then it came again—sharper this time. Real.

I stopped walking.

Not because I wanted to. Because I had to. My body just... locked. Heart jammed in my throat, blood roaring in my ears like wind funneling through a broken window. That laugh didn't belong here. But it was here. Floating through the stillness like it owned it. And with it came that cold, heavy knowing—the kind that twists low in your stomach and whispers, this is the part where something breaks.

I didn't move. Didn't blink. I just stood there in the dark, every inch of me screaming to turn back. Not out of fear. Not exactly. But because some things aren't meant to be followed. Some things are meant to stay hidden. And that sound—that laugh—was one of them.

But I couldn't help myself. I was already past the point of no return. Already moving before I knew what I was doing.

The laughter came again, closer now, and then—God help me—I heard him.

Colt.

His voice, low and even, rumbling like thunder buried beneath the brush. I couldn't make out the words. I didn't need to. I knew the cadence. Knew the way he said certain things when he was trying to be soft, when his guard slipped just enough to let someone else in.

And that laugh? It answered him.

Easy. Familiar.

Intimate.

My lungs drew in a breath that didn't make it past my ribs. Cold swept through me like water through a cracked pipe, and suddenly, I couldn't move—not forward, not back. I was frozen in the kind of stillness that doesn't belong to the living. The kind you only feel when the world you thought you knew shifts under your feet and you realize you've been standing on a fault line the whole damn time.

I didn't want to believe it.

Even now, some part of me reached for excuses—maybe he wasn't laughing. Maybe it wasn't him. Maybe I was wrong, or tired, or hearing ghosts.

But I wasn't.

It was all happening.

Not in the way heartbreak hits in movies or in the way people describe it when they're far enough away from it to give it neat edges. No. This was slower. Meaner. The kind of unraveling you feel deep in your marrow—thread by thread, memory by memory—until you don't know where the pain started, only that it's spreading.

That laugh—that goddamn laugh—was still hanging in the trees, clinging to the bark and the branches like perfume, sweet and unwanted. And it wasn't fading. It was growing. Closer. Clearer. A sound I knew and hated all at once. Familiar. Too familiar.

And then there was Colt.

I saw him before I could stop myself. The clearing opened like the forest had stepped back just to let this happen, to let me see.

He was standing just off the tree line, back to me, his silhouette sharp against the slant of moonlight. Shoulders squared. Still. The kind of still that told me he wasn't surprised. The kind that said this wasn't accidental. That this—whatever this was—was something he was letting happen.

And she was there.

Close. Too close.

One hand on his chest, her fingers splayed wide like she belonged there. Like she knew the curve of his collarbone and how slow his breath got when he was thinking too hard. Her head tilted up to his, her face hidden from me, but the curve of her body said enough. The way she leaned in—like the night was theirs. Like I was the intruder.

My lungs burned.

I wasn't breathing. Couldn't. It felt like all the air had been dragged from the woods, and I was the only one left choking on the quiet.

And yet—I didn't look away.

I stood there, rooted in place by something colder than anger. Something sharper than jealousy. It was worse than both.

It was recognition.

Because that was my ache. My softness she was stepping into. The hollow I'd left behind when I pulled back, when I kept him at arm's length to protect whatever was left of myself. And now she was there, pressing into that space like she'd always been meant to fill it.

The sight of it split something open in me I didn't even know was still intact.

I'd told myself for months that he didn't owe me anything. That I couldn't ask him to wait, or understand, or hold onto something that didn't have a name. I'd let myself believe that the way Colt looked at me—that deep, steady kind of way—was something that could survive distance.

That even if we didn't touch it, it would stay.

But now she was touching him.

And it wasn't the touch that broke me. It was how still he was beneath it. How he didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. How maybe... he'd needed it.

I couldn't hate her for that. I couldn't even hate him.

I just hated the way it all felt like confirmation. That I'd waited too long. That I'd let silence grow so thick between us, there wasn't enough left to cut through.

I swallowed hard, but nothing eased. My throat was a knot pulled tight. My chest a bruise blooming beneath my ribs.

I wanted to step forward. I wanted to shout his name, make him turn, make him see me—really see me, the way I thought he had. But what would I say? That's supposed to be me? Don't let her do that? I still care?

I didn't have the right. Not after everything. Not after all the times I'd pushed him away without explaining why I was scared, why I was holding back. And yet... God, I wanted to. I wanted to grab her wrist and rip it off his chest and say, No. Not you. Not him. Not this.

But I didn't move.

Because that wasn't me anymore. That version of Lemon—the one who fought for things even when she didn't know what she'd do with them if she won—she'd been burned down with too many almosts and not-enoughs.

So I stood there.

Watching them like a ghost.

I bit down hard on my lip—too hard. The copper taste of blood bloomed fast, metallic and jarring, grounding me in a body that suddenly didn't feel like mine. Pain was good. It gave me something to hold onto. Something solid in a moment that was anything but. Because everything else? It was slipping. Cracking. Coming apart like old wood left too long in the rain.

I needed to leave.

God, I knew I needed to. But my legs wouldn't listen. My boots stayed rooted to the dirt, like they understood some part of me needed to see this. Needed to watch the final nail get hammered in. Like witnessing it made it real. Made it final.

And maybe that's what I needed. Finality. Something I couldn't explain away tomorrow morning when the ache settled in and I tried to convince myself it hadn't meant anything.

But it did mean something.

The ache in my chest spread slow and steady, like a bruise blooming under the skin. And the tears—they came quiet. No sobs. No dramatic trembling. Just the sting at the corners of my eyes, hot and steady, refusing to fall. Refusing to give anyone—especially her—the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Then, without warning, the bottle slipped from my hand.

I didn't drop it. I didn't throw it. It just... slipped. Like my fingers forgot how to hold onto one more thing.

The sound of it hitting the rocks was so loud, it felt unnatural. Like the forest had been holding its breath just to hear the break. Shards skittered out across the ground, catching in the moonlight—bright, cruel, and final.

Colt turned.

Fast.

His body jerked like instinct brought him around before his mind caught up. And then his eyes found mine.

That blue.

That steady, godforsaken blue I knew better than my own reflection. It locked onto me like a hand wrapping around my wrist, not pulling me closer, not pushing me away—just holding.

He didn't move at first. Didn't say a word. Just stood there, looking at me like he hadn't decided which version of himself to be yet—the one who owed me nothing, or the one who knew damn well what that look on my face meant.

He didn't flinch. And somehow, that made it worse.

Because if he'd panicked, if he'd stumbled toward me with some rushed apology, some half-hearted explanation—anything—then maybe I could've told myself he hadn't been sure. That he'd just gotten caught up in something messy and passing.

But Colt Langmore didn't get caught up in things. He didn't play dumb. He didn't lie.

Which meant this silence—the weight of it between us—was the truth.

And her?

She stayed exactly where she was. Not a step back. Not an inch of space offered. She leaned back against the tree, like the whole scene was something she'd been waiting for. Like she'd won. Her smile was soft and crooked and full of something I didn't have the stomach to name.

The broken bottle gleamed at my feet. Pieces of it caught in the moonlight like stars fallen from a sky that didn't care. My breath came in too fast. Too shallow. Like I couldn't get air into a body that didn't feel like mine anymore.

And still, he didn't move.

Finally—finally—his jaw flexed. Just once. His eyes flicked to the girl beside him, then back to me. The shift in his weight was slight, but I felt it like thunder.

"Lemon," he said.

My name landed heavy in the clearing, like it didn't know if it belonged here anymore. His voice was soft, sure, like he didn't want to startle me. Like I was a skittish animal in the woods he didn't want to spook.

He took a step toward me.

I didn't move. Couldn't.

It wasn't enough.

Not the tone. Not the quiet way he said it. Not that goddamn step forward.

Because I'd stood in the fire for him. Again and again. And this? This wasn't how someone met you after you burned yourself alive to keep the distance between you warm.

I dragged in a breath. Sharp. Bitter. My throat burned around it.

"Sorry," I said.

It came out too smooth. Too calm. And that scared me. Because I wasn't calm. I was barely stitched together.

I forced a smile, razor-thin. "Didn't mean to interrupt."

But I had. Some part of me had needed to. Had walked into these woods with a quiet hope tucked behind my ribs like a loaded gun—show me something. Prove me right. Prove me wrong. Just don't leave me in the dark.

And now I wasn't in the dark anymore.

I was standing in the light of it, every inch of this moment blazing clear.

I turned before the tears could betray me. Before the ache had time to settle into something messier—something visible. My boots cracked down over glass, each step a punctuation mark I didn't mean to make. I didn't look back.

Not at her.

Not at him.

Especially not him.

The air cut sharp against my cheeks, biting cold and bitter, and I welcomed it. Let it lash me clean. Let it strip away whatever softness I still had left.

The trees opened their arms to me, or maybe they just didn't care enough to close them. Either way, I ran into their quiet. The path beneath my feet blurred, ground and sky bleeding together in that way it does when your body moves but your mind hasn't caught up. I didn't know where I was going—only that I needed to go. To be anywhere but here. The fire behind me faded into a memory, a smear of warmth I no longer felt entitled to.

My breath came ragged now. Tight in my chest, shallow in my lungs. I tried to repeat it in my head—he's not mine, he's not mine—but it didn't matter. My body knew different. My heart didn't care what my logic had signed off on. It beat out his name anyway.

Colt. Colt. Colt.

I pushed deeper into the woods.

The trees closed in around me, their branches weaving together overhead like they didn't want me to leave. The moonlight flickered through them, fractured and strange. Then, just when the quiet grew too thick—too much—I slammed into something. Someone.

Hard.

I staggered back a step, hand flying out to catch myself against the nearest tree. My breath caught sharp in my throat. My heart thundered against my ribs.

For a moment, I thought it was him.

The same height. Same build. Same quiet strength beneath the surface.

But it wasn't Colt.

It was someone else. And my heart didn't know what to do with that.