"I wasn't thinkin'," I murmured. My voice didn't even sound like mine.

He didn't answer. Just stepped around me, reached for Spice's lead, and turned her slow toward the barn. Left me standing there in the middle of the field with a tied-up sheep and Red's gaze heavy on my back.

My legs felt stupid beneath me—mud-caked, shaking, too tight down one side from the fall. I crouched beside the sheep, tried to lift it, but the pull in my ribs flared sharp again and I had to pause. Swallowed it back. Focused. Got leverage under the damn thing and dragged it toward Red's cart.

It was a young ram—thank God—but still heavier than I expected. I got him loaded, hitched Red with one hand and a wince, and started the walk back alone.

The barn rose like a shadow ahead, quiet and too far away.

When I reached it, Colt was waiting—just outside the doorway, arms crossed. He didn't speak at first. Didn't need to. The silence said enough.

"Think you broke its leg," he said finally, nodding toward the sheep.

I flinched. Didn't mean to, but it showed. I moved to unload it from the cart, slower now. Everything in me felt bruised—physically, emotionally, in places I didn't know had names.

"It won't live if you turn it loose," he went on. "Won't last long out there like that. It'll have to be shot."

My voice came quiet.

"I've never..."

It frayed off before I could finish. Hung there in the air between us, like even the words didn't want to be held.

I wasn't lying.

I'd killed things before. Too many to count if I was being honest. Hens, when the flock grew too large and the feed ran low. Cows, come spring, when winter had thinned them too far and the frostbite set in deep through the legs and lungs. I'd knelt in the snow with a gloved hand on a forehead and whispered thanks before I pulled the trigger. Always quick. Always clean.

You had to hold a certain respect for it—for life. That was the only way it sat right in your gut. If you didn't believe it mattered, it made you hollow.

But I had never killed something because of me.

Because I moved too fast. Because I let instinct outrun thought. Because I needed to prove I still knew who I was.

That was different.

Colt didn't look away. Just stood there beside Red, loosening the hitch with hands that knew exactly what they were doing, like this day hadn't gone sideways, like this was still just part of the plan.

"First time for everything," he said. Low. Even. Like the edge of a blade that didn't need to shine to be sharp. "Between the eyes. It won't feel a thing."

My throat ached. Not from crying—I hadn't. Not yet. It was the ache of shame pressing up from someplace deeper. That slow-burning heat of regret that settled behind the ribs and made it hard to draw a full breath.

He turned to go get the rifle, and I stood there like my boots had roots in the barnyard. The sheep was at my feet, breathing hard through its nose, eyes half-lidded with pain. I crouched, brushing my hand across its side, and for a moment, it pressed into my touch like it didn't know who'd hurt it. Like it trusted me still. That broke something open inside me I hadn't planned to touch today.

When Colt came back down the stairs, I didn't move.

"Go on in," he said, voice softer now. "Get a drink. I'll take care of it."

But I shook my head, sharp. "I'm stayin'."

I wasn't sure if it was penance or pride. Maybe both. Maybe I just couldn't stomach the idea of walking away from something I'd done—something I'd broken—and pretending it could be made clean without me.

He didn't argue. Just met my eyes for a long second, then crouched beside the sheep with that same quiet steadiness he always carried, like the weight of death wasn't heavy if you bore it right.

The rifle shifted in his hands. A pause. One breath.

And then the shot rang out—sharp, efficient, final.

The sheep crumpled.

The silence that followed felt colder than the wind. Like the air itself was holding its breath.

I didn't cry. Didn't move. Just stood there in the shadow of the barn and swallowed it down like bitter medicine. This was what it meant to be responsible. Not just for the animals we raised—but for the choices we made. The ones that couldn't be undone.

We worked through the rest of the afternoon in a rhythm too quiet to be called routine. We didn't talk. Didn't need to. Colt handled the knife. I handled the rest. Skinning. Cleaning. Wrapping. The kind of work that kept your hands busy so your thoughts wouldn't stray too far. Every time I bent to rinse something, the throb beneath my ribs flared again—the same side that Outlaw has ripped apart weeks ago. It had been healing. I'd barely noticed it lately. But today it burned, deep and pointed, like it was reminding me what reckless felt like.

By the time the last cut was laid in the cooler, the sun had vanished clean behind the hills. The sky wore its stars like bruises.

We hauled water to the horses, slow, bone-tired. They nuzzled our palms like nothing had gone wrong at all. Like forgiveness could be that simple. The barn cats wove around our ankles. I knelt to stroke one—let it press its cheek into my palm, let the soft fur tell my skin I was still someone who could be gentle.

Colt didn't say much. He didn't have to. His silence didn't come empty. It came full—of understanding, of patience, of the kind of strength that didn't need words to be heard.

When we walked back toward the house, our shadows stretched long behind us across the dirt, and I kept my eyes forward.

The house smelled faintly of smoke and fat, of old cedar and something simmering low in the pan. Candlelight moved soft across the walls, catching in the curve of Colt's jaw when he stepped into the kitchen and leaned against the frame, arms crossed like he didn't know how to stand still if he wasn't bracing for something.

I moved slower than usual, but I kept moving. Pulled the chops from the fridge. Set the cast iron on the stove. Salt, pepper, the dull rhythm of habit. But my body felt foreign—too slow in the wrists, too fast in the chest. The silence stretched long between us, held together by the low hiss of the burner and the heavy scrape of metal against enamel.

Then his voice cut through it—low, leveled, and just rough enough to sting. "Didn't take you for reckless," he said. "But arrogance like that'll get you killed. And I'm not gonna stand by and watch that happen. You hear me?"

I turned toward the stove, swallowed. Let the meat sizzle so I didn't have to answer right away. "I know," I murmured finally. "I'm sorry. I just—" I exhaled, but it wasn't relief. "I saw that sheep and I didn't think. I just moved."

He didn't move from the doorway, but something in his voice cracked a little when he spoke again. "You're lucky Spice didn't spook."

"I know."

But I said it flat, and that wasn't how I meant it. It came out distant. Not because I didn't care—but because if I let myself feel it all right then, it'd come undone inside me. And I wasn't ready for that.

The air felt too close. My ribs still ached where I'd hit the ground. A part of me still braced for judgment that hadn't come—but might. The worst kind was always the quiet kind.

Colt pushed off the frame, came toward me. His boots soft against the floorboards, but still loud in my chest.

"Don't talk to me like that," he said, voice sharp, then softened as he got closer. "I ain't mad at you, Lemon. I'm scared. You scare me when you don't think."

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, my hand hovering over the skillet before I reached for the chops and set them on the table. Everything felt slower than it should've been, like my body was still trying to catch up to the day. Like some part of me was still out there in the pasture, rope burning through my palm, the echo of that gunshot carved into the quiet behind my ribs.

I didn't mean to stiffen when Colt stepped close—but I did. My shoulder brushed his arm, and the heat of him was sudden, real. Steady in the way I hadn't been all day.

His voice broke the space between us, low and raw at the edges. "Lemon."

The way he said my name—soft, but not careful—made something in my chest pull tight. Not from hurt. From recognition. Like he was seeing every part of me I'd tried to hold back and choosing not to flinch.

I turned toward him slowly, my arms still aching from work, from guilt, from the weight of carrying something I couldn't undo. I didn't try to hide it this time. Didn't pretend to be okay.

I reached for him.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't planned. I just needed to feel something that didn't echo like regret. My arms wound around his neck and I held on, not like a girl needing rescue, but like a woman who knew what it cost to come apart alone. His hands came to my back—firm, sure. No hesitation. No rush.

"Can I..." My voice caught on the question, unsure, worn down to its softest thread. "Will you kiss me?"

He didn't answer right away.

Didn't smile. Didn't offer comfort wrapped in charm. He just looked at me—really looked—like he knew what I was asking wasn't about the kiss. It was about whether he could still meet me here, in the wreckage of my own choosing.

"Yeah," he said, simple and real. "I will."

He kissed me like he was trying to remind me of something I'd forgotten—something buried beneath bruised ribs and bad choices. His mouth was warm, deliberate, and steady in a way I hadn't been all day. It wasn't rushed or ravenous. It didn't ask for anything but presence. It just was.

And for one breathless, god-awful tender moment, I let myself fall into it. Into him.

Into the heat of his hand curling gentle around my cheek, into the way his breath softened against mine before his mouth ever touched it. I let my body ease, just slightly, into that rare and impossible thing—relief. Not because the day had been made right, but because someone had seen the worst of it and hadn't walked away.

Then came the thunder—loud and close enough to rattle the glass in the panes. I flinched without meaning to, hands tightening where they touched him, fingers fisting against the back of his shirt like I was bracing for something I couldn't name.

My eyes darted to the window. Raindrops had started their slow descent—quiet at first, then steady, sliding in long trails down the glass like the sky had decided to weep in silence. I couldn't remember when it had started.

"Those weren't there a minute ago," I whispered, more to myself than him.

Colt stepped beside me, close enough that the warmth of him slipped through the space between us without ever needing to be asked. He didn't touch me this time. Didn't need to. His presence said enough.

"Storm's here," he murmured, voice low and even.

I nodded, but the gesture felt too small. Too neat for the mess unraveling inside me.

Something in the air called to me, and before I could talk myself out of it, I moved toward the front door. The screen gave way beneath my fingers, and the night spilled in—wet, cool, alive with the hush of falling rain and the deep hush that always came just before memory caught up.

The porch was half-shadow, half-lantern glow, lit by a single bulb above the rail that swung soft in the breeze. I stepped out barefoot, skin prickling against the chill, and settled onto the swing, ribs flaring as I sank slow into the slats. Colt followed, quiet as always. He didn't speak—just sat beside me like he'd been carved to fill that exact shape.

We rocked in silence, the creak of the chain a soft metronome to the rhythm of rain hitting the steps.

The sky above us was a canvas of muted blue and coal smoke, and the trees beyond the fence swayed like they were remembering something too.

I leaned my head to his shoulder, slow and unsure. He didn't flinch. Just let me rest there. His arm came around me a moment later—solid, warm, and careful. Not like I was breakable, but like he knew I'd been holding myself together longer than I should've had to.

The rain filled the quiet, and I let it.

And I saw it. It was barely a bloom—white and fragile, like a breath you're scared to take. I plucked it without thinking, thumb grazing the soft underside of its petal, already wilting from too much weather. The stem was thin and green, still damp with the storm. I held it in the cradle of my palm like it might mean something if I looked at it long enough.

Maybe I just needed something small to hold. Something that hadn't broken yet.

I kept turning the flower in my fingers. Petal, stem, petal. Over and over like a clock trying to measure time that didn't exist anymore. Not after the things we'd done today. Not after the gunshot. Not after the rope burned through my hands and the blood dried beneath my nails.

It wasn't about the sheep. It never had been. It was about the mistake. About the way it made me feel—wild, reckless, small. Like maybe I wasn't who I thought I was. Like maybe I'd gotten too good at pretending I still had control.

Colt reached for me without warning, his touch gentle but firm as he took the flower from my hand. I looked up, and for a second, I couldn't breathe. Not because of the gesture, but because of the way he looked at me. Like he already knew what I hadn't said. Like he'd seen it all unravel in me and still wanted to stay.

He tucked the flower behind my ear. Careful. Intentional. And the gesture—so quiet, so devastatingly kind—undid something in me I hadn't realized was still wound tight.

I laughed. Just barely. The sound cracked halfway out of my throat like it wasn't sure it belonged.

"Last night..." he started, voice low and rough, like gravel warmed by firelight. "It wasn't just a moment, Lem. It wasn't just the rain. Or the tequila."