My throat tightened. I wanted to speak, but the words caught behind the memory of his hands on my skin, the softness of his mouth, the ache I'd swallowed down even as I kissed him back.

I turned toward him, slow. "It happened so fast," I said. My voice didn't feel like mine—it was quieter, worn. "One second we were laughing at the bar, and the next I felt like I was free-falling. Like I couldn't catch my breath."

He nodded once, steady. "That's 'cause it's been building for a long damn time. You know it. I know it."

And I did. I knew it in the way he looked at me when I thought no one was watching. In the way he stepped in front of things without needing to explain himself. In the way his silence made room instead of taking it away.

I stared at the rain trailing down the porch rail, each drop catching light like it was made of something holy. The quiet between us stretched, but it didn't feel empty. It felt like something true had taken root.

"Do you regret it?" The words slipped out before I could soften them, brittle at the edges, more fragile than I meant. I didn't look at him when I said it. I looked at the rain, at the silver trickle sliding off the porch rail like time unraveling too fast to catch.

Colt turned his head, slow and sure. "Not for a second." His voice didn't waver. "You?"

I didn't answer right away. Couldn't. I let the quiet fill up the space where fear usually lived. Thought about the way his mouth had met mine like it already knew what I needed. Thought about the steadiness of him today, when everything else inside me was splintering sideways.

And still... part of me stayed braced for the ache that came with closeness. The kind that couldn't be stitched up. The kind that didn't bleed loud but lived in your marrow.

I shook my head, slow. "No. I don't."

He breathed out like he'd been holding something in, and I felt the sound against my temple when he leaned in, pressing a kiss there so soft it felt like an apology for every hard thing the world had ever done to me. His arm pulled me in tighter, and I let him.

But I could already feel the weight of the words I hadn't said.

"Nationals are coming up," I murmured, my voice quieter now. Not bitter. Not cold. Just honest. "You're leaving soon."

It didn't need to be more than that. The rest was already sitting between us, plain as the porch light catching in the rain.

I watched the drops slide down the banister, slow and silver, disappearing into the wood like time had teeth. I'd always loved storms—how they felt honest in a world that rarely was. But now the sound of rain made my chest ache, because I knew it was the last quiet we'd get before everything changed.

Colt didn't say anything, but I could feel him shift beside me—like he was bracing without moving. His silence was thick, not distant. Not cold. Just full. The way silence always got when it knew it was about to lose something.

And maybe that's what broke me open. Because I didn't want to lose him. But I also couldn't be the girl who stayed quiet just to keep someone beside her.

I'd done my research. Quietly. Alone. Long before he ever touched me. I'd seen the headlines. The rankings. I knew how close he'd gotten last year, how he'd been clawing his way toward this for seasons, riding bulls with names that made seasoned cowboys flinch. I'd read the articles that called him a "dark horse contender" and "the one to watch." Watched the videos frame by frame, saw the look in his eyes right before the gate cracked open—like he'd made peace with whatever came next. Even if it broke him.

That's who he was.

And I loved him for it.

But it terrified me, too.

Because I'd seen that same fire once before—in my father, Tex, the man who left my mama behind to chase arenas and lights. A man who said he'd be back and never was. And I watched what it did to her. The waiting. The silence. The half-set dinner plates and unanswered calls. I saw the way a woman breaks in slow motion when she gives her heart to someone who lives for the road.

I swore I wouldn't be her.

And yet here I was—sitting beside a man whose life was carved by the same roads. The same arenas. A man whose heart beat for eight seconds at a time, while mine just tried to stay steady.

He turned to me then, slow and quiet, like he knew the answer he wanted might not be the one I could give.

"You comin' with me?"
The way he asked it... so plain, like it was something I could just reach for and have. Like it didn't split my chest open just hearing it said out loud.

And God, for a second, I wanted to say yes.

Not because I believed in fairytales or thought the world would rearrange itself just because I wanted it to—but because there was a part of me that had always dreamed of being chosen. Of being asked to come along. Not left behind. Not forgotten in the rearview of someone else's purpose.

But the minute the question left his mouth, something cracked open in me so hard and so clean it stole the breath from my lungs.

Because I couldn't go.

And we both already knew that.

I looked at him—really looked. Took in the way the porch light caught at his jaw, the rain threading soft silver across the crown of his shoulder. He looked like he could carry anything. But I wasn't a thing meant to be carried. I was landlocked. Tethered.

"I can't," I said, and my voice didn't shake. It just... fell. "You know I can't."

The words hung between us like humidity—thick, real, impossible to ignore. I wasn't saying no to him. I was saying no to leaving. There's a difference, and he knew it.

I turned back toward the railing. The rain had found its rhythm now—soft, unhurried, steady. The kind of rain that didn't wash things away so much as remind you they were always there.
"This place..." I whispered, and it felt like confession. "It's not just dirt and walls to me. It's stitched into every part of who I am. The horses. The fence lines. The mess. It's all in my name, whether I want it or not. I can't walk away from it—not even for you."

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But I could feel him there, solid and warm, like he was giving me space without stepping away from it.

"I was fifteen when my mama taught me how to balance the books," I said, the memory curling like smoke at the edges of my voice. "Sixteen when I figured out which feed we could stretch and which we couldn't. I haven't taken a breath that wasn't tied to this place since I was a girl. And I don't get to forget that just because someone finally sees me."

He shifted then, just enough for his knee to brush mine. And it was that small touch—grounding, quiet, real—that made my heart stutter.

"I'll come back."

Three words. Small. Uncomplicated on the surface. But the way he said them—it wasn't simple at all.
It was quiet, and raw, and full of something that felt like grief in reverse. Like he was already mourning the distance and saying it anyway.
Like he was putting something fragile in my hands, trusting I wouldn't break it.

He turned to me then, the porch light throwing gold across his face, and added, "I don't know what it's gonna look like. Or how long. But I will. You have my word."

And it wasn't the kind of thing a man like him said often. You could hear the weight of it in the stillness after. Like the world itself was trying to give the words enough space to land.

I looked at him, not the way a girl does when she's hoping to be persuaded, but the way a woman does when she's spent her whole life learning how to read the pauses between a man's promises.

And I saw it—clear as the stormlight in his eyes.

He meant it.

Every syllable.

But meaning something didn't mean it would hold.
And I'd lived long enough to know the difference.

The ache moved up my throat before I could stop it, that thick kind of ache that has nothing to do with tears and everything to do with memory.

I saw my mama then—ghosted in the space between breaths.

Standing in our kitchen in the old house with her hair pulled back too tight, warming a plate that never got eaten. Setting the table for a man who never walked through the door. I saw the hope in her eyes every time the phone rang. The quiet after it didn't.

"I want to believe you," I said, the words barely catching on my breath. Soft. Honest. Threadbare at the edges. "I really do."

And I did. God, I did.

Colt's brow furrowed, a flicker of something behind his eyes—like disappointment maybe, but not at me. At the world that made promises feel like wounds waiting to happen."Then believe me," he said. Not like he was trying to convince me. Just offering it. Solid. Still. Like a house that wouldn't creak in the wind.

But I shook my head, slow. Not no. Just... not yet.

"It's not that easy." I blinked hard, trying to clear the burn gathering behind my eyes. "You leave, and the world rushes in to fill the space. The sponsors. The cameras. The lights so bright they drown out the things that matter. They'll call you by a name I don't even recognize, and you'll answer like it's always been yours. And I'll just be here. With my hands in feed buckets and my boots sinking in mud. Doing chores. Paying bills. Fixing fences that won't stay fixed. Holding this place together with splinters and spit and a name that means debt more than it ever meant legacy."

My breath caught at the end of that sentence, like it had tripped on something inside me that had finally given out.

And maybe it had.

Because once the words were out, I felt it. That slow, quiet rupture. The way pain doesn't scream when it's real—it just spreads. Quiet and unrelenting. Like floodwater through floorboards.

Colt didn't speak right away. And I didn't fill the silence for him.

I stared down at my hands—calloused, stained, scarred in places where the land had asked too much and I hadn't known how to say no. Hands that had dragged water troughs through frozen mud, that had buried the foals we couldn't save, that had signed loan extensions with the pen shaking in my grip.

These hands didn't know how to hold onto something gentle. Not for long.

The wind moved across the porch, brushing damp hair against my cheek, and I didn't wipe it away. I let it cling, like a warning. Like a reminder that this was who I was—grounded, worn down, half-feral from trying too hard for too long.

I looked at Colt again, and the porch light hit his face just enough to make it feel like something holy. His jaw was tight, but not angry. His hands were clenched, but not from rage. From restraint. From the kind of ache men aren't allowed to show in daylight.

"I don't get to chase things," I said, quieter now, but with more weight behind it. "Not like you do. I don't get eight seconds of glory and a crowd screaming my name. I get hay in my bra and a check that barely covers grain. I get to inherit someone else's mistakes and try to outrun the same goddamn fate my mother couldn't."

I paused. Swallowed. Felt the truth trying to tear its way up my throat.

"You ride bulls with names like Outlaw and Reaper. I ride guilt and legacy and that damn mustang in the south pasture who still won't let anyone near her. You want to know why I can't just believe you, Colt?"

He looked at me then, all of him—eyes, mouth, shoulders—like he was bracing for the blow and ready to take it anyway.

"Because if I do," I whispered, voice shaking now, "and you don't come back... I won't survive it. Not really. I'll keep moving. I'll keep feeding the horses and fixing the gate and smiling when people say your name like it doesn't splinter my ribs. But something in me will die. Quiet and slow. And I won't even be able to bury it, because I'll still need it to get through winter."

The tears came then, hot and unforgiving. Not loud. Just there. Just enough to blur the edges of the man in front of me.

He moved without saying a word—just leaned forward and folded me into him like I was something he didn't need to understand to hold. His arms wrapped tight around my ribs, careful where the bruises still lived. His chin rested against the crown of my head. And for a second, just one, I let myself believe that maybe that was enough. That maybe arms like his could keep the storm out.

"It won't happen," he said, voice low but solid. No tremble. No rush. "I ain't leavin' you behind. I don't care how far I go, Lemon, you're with me. Always."

And I wanted so badly to believe that voice. That steadiness. The promise folded between syllables. But I'd spent a lifetime watching people say forever and mean until.

I didn't pull away. But I didn't fall apart either. I just stayed there, tucked under his jaw, breathing in the scent of sweat, saddle soap, and whatever ache he'd been carrying all day. And I said the only thing I had left that felt real.

"I'm not the kind of girl who waits by the phone," I whispered. "I can't be. I watched what waiting did to my mama. Turned her bones to dust long before the casket did."

His breath hitched—just slightly—before his hand found mine, warm and calloused and trembling in a way that told me maybe this scared him too.

"Then don't wait," he said, and this time his voice was quiet. Not uncertain—just reverent. "Just know. I'll be back. I swear to you, Lemon. You're the only thing I want to come back to."

I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest. Not a burden. A seed.

Hope.

And that scared me more than anything. Because hope had teeth. It bit down and didn't let go.

I nodded, slow. Let the rain keep falling. Let the porch creak beneath the rhythm of us. Let the world do what it would.

"Alright," I said.

But what I meant was: I want to believe you more than anything, and I don't know how not to.

And if anyone could make good on a promise like that, it was Colt Langmore.