I'd always believed winter made people honest.

The cold strips everything down—trees, earth, even the sky. Leaves fall. Ground cracks. Clouds hang low and heavy like they're holding their breath. And people, when it gets cold enough, stop pretending they're not aching. They pull their coats tighter, speak a little slower, lean closer to the fire.

Tonight was the kind of night that asked you to tell the truth.

The kind where the dark didn't press, it hushed. Where the sky wasn't just black—it was deep. Bottomless. Stars spilled across it like they'd been scattered on purpose, and the moon was thin and watchful, high above the pines that circled the fire pit like gods.

I pulled my knees to my chest, sweater sleeves stretched over my hands, boots tipped just close enough to the flames to thaw the cold that had settled in my bones. My jeans was dusted with flurries that hadn't yet melted, and my breath came out in little puffs that disappeared before I could see where they went.

Colt sat just to my left, legs stretched out toward the flames, his boot heels dug into the dirt like he was bracing against the whole night. He hadn't said much since we started the fire—not that he needed to. He never did. His silences weren't empty. They were full of shape and weight, like the kind of quiet that settles into a barn after a long day, when the work's done and there's nothing left to do but listen to the wind push against the rafters.

He nursed a beer, the neck of the bottle resting loose between his fingers. The firelight turned the amber to something almost honey-colored, and I caught myself watching the way it moved when he shifted his grip. The way his thumb brushed over the glass without thinking, like he needed something solid to hold onto.

The closer we got to Nationals, the more I saw it—that shadow behind his eyes. Not fear, exactly. Just... weight. Like he was carrying something he hadn't named yet.

I didn't ask. Not yet.

Instead, I reached down and cracked open the soda I'd tucked into the cooler earlier—peach, faintly sweet, the kind I used to drink on long rides back from the feed store, back when things were simpler. I wasn't even sure why I'd brought it. Maybe I wanted to be reminded of something that didn't ache.

The fire snapped, a log shifting just enough to send a burst of sparks up into the air. Colt glanced over, caught my eye for half a second, and gave me that look—the one that said he was glad I was here without needing to say it. The one that made my ribs feel like they'd been knocked loose and reassembled softer.

I pulled my knees tighter. The cold was settling in deeper now, slow and certain, the kind that made you grateful for every inch of fleece and flannel you'd layered before stepping outside.

Somewhere behind us, headlights swept through the trees, carving long shadows across the ground. Caleb, probably. Maybe Sean. The others were trickling in, one by one, drawn to the fire like moths.

But for now, it was just Colt and me.

I looked at him again, really looked, and felt something shift under my skin.

This wasn't a pause in the story. This was the story. The part you look back on later and realize—that was when everything changed. Not with a kiss. Not with a fight. But with a silence that felt like it understood you.

"You warm enough?" Colt asked, his voice low, like he didn't want to break the shape of the quiet too much.

I nodded, even though it wasn't true.

The fire didn't reach the parts of me that were cold. Not really. Not the hollow stretch just below my ribs, or the tight place in my throat where I kept pretending I wasn't already counting down the days.

Seven.

That's how many I had left before the mornings turned thin again. Before the nights went long and silent, and the only sound would be the wind brushing past the old barn. Seven days before Colt Langmore folded his denim jacket into a duffel and left Windwalker for the kind of arena lights that didn't flicker like firelight, but burned too bright to see the stars through.

I tried to picture it.

The absence.

Waking up to cold sheets and an empty side of the bed that still smelled like cedar and soap. Reaching out in the dark and finding nothing but a wrinkle in the quilt where his body used to be.

Making coffee alone—no low voice saying "mornin', sweetheart," no arms looping around my waist while I stood barefoot in the kitchen, flannel hem brushing the tops of my thighs. Just the click of the percolator and the sound of my own breath, loud in the kind of quiet that only winter could bring.

I thought about folding the laundry without his shirts mixed in. No flannel sleeves to turn right-side-out. No worn jeans balled up with the socks I always swore he lost on purpose.

I thought about fixing the busted gate by myself. The one Spice kept knocking crooked. How I'd have to hold the post steady alone, rope stiff with frost, gloves too big for finesse. No one to brace the beam. No one to pass the hammer. Just me, and the cold, and the sound of nails driven in too hard, too fast, because sometimes working hurt less than feeling.

I thought about how the days would stretch long and bare, the sky that time of year going colorless by four, and how the porch would stay empty at night, no second pair of boots on the mat. No coat hung sloppy over the railing.

I thought about the way the light would hit the floorboards come morning and how it wouldn't matter, because he wouldn't be in it.

The ache of it swelled up under my ribs, quiet but sharp. Like something small and living had taken root there, and was pulling me apart, inch by inch.

I didn't say any of this aloud.

Didn't need to.

Colt didn't move, didn't press, just kept watching the fire with that same stillness he carried everywhere. Like he knew, somehow, what I was thinking. Like he could feel the weight of my heart shifting under the surface, the way you feel a storm coming in your bones.

And the thing was—he hadn't even left yet.

But I already missed him.

The fire cracked, splintering another log into embers, and I leaned in—slow, deliberate—until my shoulder brushed his. Until the weight of Colt Langmore settled against mine like something I'd once dreamed of and didn't dare touch. His jacket was warm where it pressed into my arm, and even through the knit of my sweater, I felt it: the steady, bone-deep heat of a man built more of silence than show. Heat that didn't flicker like flame, but stayed. Quiet and constant.

The snow had begun to fall thicker now, the kind of snowfall that didn't rush—just drifted, soft as breath, collecting on the edges of our boots, clinging to the curls behind his ear. The world around us muted, like the land itself had leaned in to listen. And maybe it had.

The headlights came again—cutting through the tree line like they hadn't barged into something they couldn't understand. They swept across the clearing, catching the smoke just right so it glowed gold, and for a moment, everything felt suspended. Like time paused to brace for whatever came next.

Then came the engine. Loud. Overconfident. Caleb's truck, no question.

I didn't move. Just curled deeper into myself, fingers hidden in the sleeves of my sweater, my knees pulled tight to my chest. The cold was clawing through the fleece lining now, slow and certain, but it wasn't what made my spine go stiff.

It was the second door.

The passenger side.

She stepped out like she'd been rehearsing it her whole life—one boot at a time, blonde hair falling in soft, deliberate waves that caught the moonlight like it belonged to her. It didn't shine. It shimmered. Like something you'd find pressed between the pages of a high school yearbook, perfect and preserved and just a little smug about it.

Jasmine.

Her name struck through me sharp and fast, the way a cold wind slips past your collar—uninvited but impossible to ignore. I didn't say anything. Didn't flinch. But something in me tensed anyway, old instincts kicking up like dust in a drought. That kind of pretty always came with a price. I knew that from experience.

She didn't look at me. Not at first. Just smoothed her coat down over dark denim, gloved hand brushing away invisible wrinkles like the air itself should've known better than to touch her. Her gaze swept the clearing—not with wonder, not with warmth—but like she was checking it off a list. Trees. Fire. Lemon. Noted.

The truck door shut behind her with a muted thud. Final. Too final.

Caleb climbed out a second later, slow and swaggering like always, a bottle of something tucked under one arm and a grin already waiting for whoever'd catch it. "Evenin', cowgirls and heartbreakers," he said, hat tipped, drawl easy. "Hope I'm not too late to steal the spotlight."

Caleb circled the fire like it was his stage, cooler in hand and grin already in place. His boots crunched across the frost-bitten dirt, smoke curling around his frame as if even the fire knew to part for his kind of trouble.

He set the cooler down with a heavy thunk, flipped the lid with the flourish of someone who never entered quietly, and reached in like he already knew what he'd find. "Brought peace offerings," he said, holding up a bottle of that cinnamon whiskey like it was a sacred relic. "Liquor, beer, and that particular sin Lemon Odell likes to pretend don't tempt her."

I didn't look at him. Just held out my hand, palm open, fingers slack like the weight of the night was already pooling in my joints. Caleb didn't hesitate. He tossed the bottle across the fire's edge with the easy confidence of someone who'd never had to earn his place—just arrive with charm and good timing.

"Knew it," he said, grin cut from the same crooked cloth as always.

The cinnamon whiskey was still warm from the truck, metal cap slick beneath my fingers. I twisted it off and lifted it slow, deliberate. The smell hit first—sharp and artificial, like memory dressed up in something it never wore right. I tipped the bottle back and drank, the burn hitting the center of my chest before the sweetness even registered.

I swallowed hard. "Didn't say I don't like it," I muttered, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. "Said it tastes like a decision I already regret."

He laughed, bold and sharp, like it didn't cost him a thing. "Ain't that the point?"

I didn't answer. Just watched the fire curl upward in ribbons, licking the night like it wanted more of it. Across from me, Jessica stood stiff, arms crossed tight over her chest like the cold hadn't touched her, like she didn't need the fire or the company or the night at all.

She looked too curated for this clearing. That blonde hair of hers glinted in the firelight, too smooth, too brushed. Her coat, long and tailored, fell just right over dark jeans that hadn't seen mud. She didn't glance around like someone taking in a view—she scanned it, like a guest arriving late to a party she didn't think much of.

Her gaze hit Colt, hovered a beat too long.

And I felt it.

So did he.

He didn't react, not openly. Just let his eyes drift back to the fire. But his jaw tightened slightly. That was enough.

I didn't offer her a drink.

Colt's gaze shifted then—not to her, but to me. Quiet. Careful.

"You okay?" he asked. Just two words. But they didn't land light. They never did when they came from him.

I nodded, the movement barely there. "Not cold, if that's what you mean."

"It wasn't," he said.

And that—that unraveled me more than it should've.

Caleb popped his own beer, foam running over his knuckles. "So this is the part where we pretend we're not all losing our damn minds about Nationals?"

He said it like a joke, light and sharp and meant to land easy.

But it didn't. Not really. Not when Caleb's eyes slid toward Colt at the end of it—like he was searching for backup, or maybe just for something steady to hold onto in the silence that followed. The kind of glance that asked more than the words dared to.

Colt didn't rush to answer. Just shifted where he sat—slow, deliberate—the way a man moves when he's trying to make peace with something he never asked for. His forearms rested heavy across his knees, the neck of his beer cradled between two fingers like it was less a drink and more a tether. Something to hold so his hands wouldn't betray what he wasn't saying.

I watched the way his shoulders rose and fell once. Measured. The kind of breath you take when you're already carrying too much and know you're about to take on more.

My boot traced an aimless line through the frostbitten dirt, and I felt it again—that low ache in my chest, dull and steady, blooming slow beneath the ribs. Not fear. Not even sadness. Just the heavy awareness that we were already moving toward the part where it ended. Or shifted. Or hollowed out in the places I didn't want to admit had been filled.

All of this—this circle of firelight and fleece-lined sleeves, of half-drunk bottles and tired laughter and boots scuffed into the earth—it wasn't stretchable. Wasn't built to last. And time was moving. Fast.

"We leave Wednesday," Colt said finally, his voice stripped clean of any performance. It came out rougher than usual, like it had traveled too far inside him before surfacing. "Figured we'd try to make Amarillo before the weather turns. After that... we'll see."

He didn't look at me when he said it. But I looked at him.

The fire caught the side of his face and left the rest to shadow, like it couldn't decide whether to cast him in light or let him go dark. The blue of his eyes dulled into something smoky. Something distant. The kind of color that disappears in a storm.

Across the circle, Caleb tipped back his bottle. "Three days if the roads are clear. Four if the world decides to be a pain in the ass."

The fire cracked like it was laughing at that, a dry branch splitting in the pit. Somewhere deeper in the woods, snow shed from the trees in a long, tired sigh.

I didn't say anything. My throat was thick, filled with the kind of ache that doesn't beg to be spoken—just wants to be survived. It pressed against the inside of my ribs like it was trying to become part of me. Not grief, not yet. But the thing that comes right before it. The waiting.

Colt's hand tightened slightly around the bottle, his thumb tapping slow against the glass. And I could feel it then—not in his voice, not in his words, but in the quiet hum of him beside me. He didn't want to go. Not really.

But he would.

The fire cracked and spat, sending a spiral of sparks into the night sky that seemed too wide, too empty. I watched them disappear, one by one, wishing I could follow—burn bright, then vanish. No lingering. No ache.

Like a firefly, maybe.

That's what I felt like most nights. Flicker, flicker, flicker—light in the dark, small and stubborn. Trying to mean something in a world too big to hold it. But even fireflies go out eventually. One blink, then nothing. You never see the last one—you just realize it's gone.