In the three months since Colt Langmore came to Windwalker, he had surprised me more than I care to admit. But only three times had those glimpses truly unsettled something within me, like whispers sinking deep into the soil of my thoughts, rooting themselves where I couldn't quite reach.

The first time was when I found him late one evening, long after the workday had wrung us both dry, sitting under the dim light of the barn with a book in his hand. It wasn't the sight of him there, tucked into the quiet space between the stalls and hay bales, that gave me pause—it was the book. Not a dog-eared cowboy magazine or an old rancher's guide like I might have expected. No, it was something else entirely. The spine was creased, the pages worn from use, as if the story inside had been lived over and over.

I didn't say a word. Just stood there in the shadows, watching the way his brow furrowed with each line, the way his fingers traced the edges of the page before turning it with a kind of care that didn't belong in a world as hard as this. He didn't notice me—too absorbed in whatever words held him captive. And in that moment, the distance between us felt both infinite and suddenly too small.

He glanced up when I settled beside him, those cobalt eyes meeting mine with a flicker of surprise, but he didn't speak. Didn't need to. In that moment, words weren't necessary. We existed together in the quiet—me, lost in the weight of his presence, and him, lost in whatever world the pages held for him. It was the kind of closeness that didn't demand anything, didn't push or pull. Just was. And it made me wonder how many more layers Colt had hidden beneath that quiet exterior, how much more there was to discover.

The second time Colt Langmore surprised me, it wasn't quiet like the first. It was anything but.

We had been working side by side in the heat of the midday sun, mending fences that had seen too many storms and too little care. The sky stretched endless and blinding above us, and the earth beneath our boots felt hard and unyielding, like everything here had forgotten how to give. We'd barely spoken, both of us too lost in the rhythm of the work—him, with that steady focus I had come to expect, and me, trying to shake off the unease that had settled in my chest.

I don't know what made me look up at that moment, but when I did, I saw it. One of the bulls had broken loose, its massive frame barreling straight toward the open field, toward the road beyond. Time seemed to slow, the pounding of hooves rattling through my bones, and before I could shout or even think, Colt was moving. He dropped the hammer, his body cutting through the air as if he'd been made for this very moment. There was no hesitation, no fear in the way he moved—just raw, unflinching instinct.

He reached the bull before I could even register what was happening, throwing himself into the path of the beast with a kind of reckless determination that left me breathless. He didn't flinch as the animal reared up, didn't falter as he grabbed hold of the rope, twisting it around his hands like he was taming something wild, something untamable.

For a heartbeat, I thought he might lose. Thought the weight of it all—the strength of the bull, the chaos of the moment—would be too much. But then, with a sharp yank and a low command that rumbled through the air, Colt brought the beast down to its knees. The power of him, the raw, relentless force, was something I hadn't expected to see up close.

My heart was in my throat, pounding harder than it had any right to. There was something in the way he stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow, that made the world tilt sideways for a moment.

He met my gaze from across the field, his eyes darker now, almost wild, and for a split second, I forgot how to breathe. There was a challenge in his stare, something untamed that flickered just beneath the surface, something that said this—this was who he really was. Not the quiet man reading by the barn, not the easy smiles or the stolen moments of peace. This. The chaos. The fire.

And that scared me more than I cared to admit. Because I realized then, as he stood there, hand still wrapped around the rope, that there was a part of him I would never be able to touch. A part of him that lived for moments like this—dangerous, unpredictable. Wild.

The third time Colt Langmore surprised me wasn't something that hit all at once. It wasn't a single, sharp moment like the first two. It was more of a slow realization, a quiet kind of discovery that crept up on me, unbidden, until it settled in my bones.

This morning I found him already halfway through with the horses, sipping coffee from one of the mugs in the loft, and I almost stopped in my tracks. He stood there, framed by the soft, gray light of dawn slipping through the barn doors. A black beanie tugged low over his dark hair, a brown worn jacket hugging his frame, and steam rising in lazy spirals from the mug in his hand. The moment was peaceful, undisturbed by the usual chaos of the day. It was the kind of stillness that felt rare around here, like the land itself had paused to breathe.

And so had I.

For the first time in what felt like ages, I let myself stand there, just watching him. There was something grounding about the sight of Colt like that—something solid, dependable. The weight on my shoulders, the one I'd been carrying for as long as I could remember, lifted, if only just a little. A flicker of disbelief moved through me, but the reality of it was right in front of me—he had already done half the work, quietly, without needing to be asked. Like he knew. Like he understood the pressure building inside me, the tension that had been pulling tighter and tighter with each day leading up to this.

The Cody Stampede.

The rodeo had been on my mind for weeks now, chewing at the edges of my thoughts. There was always something on the ranch that needed tending to—something that needed fixing or patching or figuring out. It never seemed like the right time to step away, not even for a day. I'd brought it up to Colt in passing a few times, not expecting much. The weight of it felt like mine alone to bear.

But here he was, up before dawn, finishing the chores like it was the most natural thing in the world. And as I watched him from the shadows of the barn, I felt something shift inside me—something I couldn't quite name, but it was there, deep and undeniable.

When he turned, his eyes catching mine, a slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. There was no surprise on his face, no need for explanation. He just held out the other mug, the steam curling up between us like some kind of silent offering.

I took the cup, wrapping my hands around it, grateful for the warmth that seeped into my fingers. "Thanks," I murmured, feeling a strange mix of comfort and unease settle in my chest.

I took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through me like a quiet reminder that there were still soft things in this world—things that didn't demand, didn't pull or twist. Colt watched me from under the brim of his beanie, that familiar stillness about him.

"You didn't have to," I said, the words feeling inadequate, but they were the only ones I had.

Colt shrugged, his gaze flicking toward the door where the early light was beginning to filter in, painting everything in muted shades of gold and gray. "Didn't seem right to let you do it alone. Not today."

I looked at him, really looked, and the weight of his words settled in deeper than I expected. Not today.

"I guess I'm still getting used to you being here," I admitted softly, my thumb tracing the edge of the mug. "It's been a while since I had someone to share this with."

Colt's eyes flickered, something almost imperceptible passing through them, but he didn't press. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way that wasn't quite a smile but something softer, something real. "You're not so bad at sharing."

I huffed a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "Maybe not with coffee."

Colt chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, like the crackle of a fire on a cold night. He kept his attention on the horses, moving with that easy, unhurried grace of his. His hands, rough and calloused from years of work, moved deftly as he finished brushing Honey's coat.

"You're saying you're stingy with other things?" he asked, his voice light, teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something that stirred just below the surface. He shot me a glance, cobalt eyes gleaming with unspoken challenge.

I took a slow sip of the coffee, the warmth of it spreading through me, but it wasn't enough to quiet the quickening in my chest. "Depends," I said, offering a half-smile. "What are you after?"

He turned then, leaning slightly against the stable door, one hand still holding the brush. "Wouldn't know until I asked, would I?"

I raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze over the rim of my mug. "I'd say you've never had trouble getting what you wanted."

Colt's smile didn't falter, but there was a shift in his expression—subtle, like a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "I guess that depends on what it is I'm after," he said, his voice easy, casual, but his eyes still holding that steady intensity.

The weight of his gaze felt heavier than it should've, like there were layers beneath his words that I wasn't sure I was ready to peel back. I held onto my mug a little tighter, feeling the warmth seep into my fingers, grounding me.

"Cryptic," I replied, my tone light, though I could hear the undercurrent of something else in my own voice. "You always this vague, or is it just today?"

He chuckled again, that low rumble that always seemed to settle into the quiet spaces around us. "Maybe I'm just trying to figure out if you're worth sharing more with."

His words were teasing, but they settled deep, like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples I wasn't ready for. I glanced away, pretending to focus on Honey, but the air between us had already shifted.

"You'll have to let me know when you figure that out," I said, my voice softer than I intended, barely louder than a breath.

Colt tilted his head, his eyes not leaving mine even when I glanced away. His steady gaze was like a tether, keeping me anchored in the moment, even as I tried to avoid the weight of whatever was stirring between us. I could feel his attention lingering, just as it always did—quiet, patient, never pressing too hard. It was unnerving, the way he seemed to read into things without saying a word, like he was content to let the silence do all the heavy lifting.

"I'll let you know," he said finally, his voice still easy, though there was something deeper there, something quieter that made the air between us feel too heavy for just idle talk.

I nodded, not trusting myself to say anything else without giving away too much. It was strange, feeling so exposed by a conversation that wasn't even really a conversation. I wasn't used to this, wasn't used to someone like Colt—someone who didn't need to fill every moment with words or force an answer from me. It was a kind of quiet pressure, and somehow, it was more dangerous than the loud, reckless charm I'd grown accustomed to.

"I should..." I began, but the words tangled themselves, heavy with everything unsaid, hanging between us like the morning fog that clung to the air outside. I could feel Colt watching me, his eyes steady, seeing through the flimsy excuse I was about to offer. "I should go check on the cattle," I finished, the lie wrapped in the mundane.

Colt's gaze didn't waver, but a soft smile tugged at the corner of his lips, something almost resigned, yet understanding. "You don't have to pretend, Lemon. You don't owe me that."

His tone was light, but the softness in his gaze said he understood more than I'd given him credit for.

I offered a small, tight smile in return, not sure how to respond to that. There was no teasing retort, no quick banter to hide behind this time.

I nodded, more to myself than to Colt, and turned away, clutching the mug like it was a lifeline. The cold air hit me as soon as I stepped outside, biting at my cheeks and threading its icy fingers through my hair. The ground crunched beneath my boots, and the sky had lightened just enough to cast everything in a soft, gray glow. I breathed in deeply, letting the familiar scent of earth and hay fill my lungs, steadying me in a way that the conversation with Colt hadn't.

The cold air wrapped around me as I crossed the yard, the familiar rhythm of morning chores pulling me forward. I kept my hands wrapped tightly around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my fingers. There was something about this place, in these early hours, when the world felt like it belonged to just me. A kind of solitude that rooted me to the earth beneath my feet.

The cattle were already stirring, their low grumbles mixing with the distant rustling of the wind through the grass. Routine had always been important to me, especially on mornings like this, when the weight of rodeo lingered on the horizon, heavy and unspoken. I dropped the mug down on the fence post and reached for the bales of hay stacked nearby, the familiar ache in my muscles reminding me of all the days that had passed just like this.

But today wasn't just like the others.

I tossed the first bale over the fence, watching as the cattle moved toward it, their breath rising in soft puffs of steam against the morning air. My movements felt automatic, my body going through the motions while my mind kept drifting, circling back to that moment in the barn. Back to Colt.

His words had settled deep, tugging at something I wasn't ready to name. The way he understood without needing an explanation, the quiet way he just... was. It unnerved me more than I wanted to admit.

I brushed a strand of hair out of my face, reaching for the mug again, desperate for the distraction. The heat from the coffee was a welcome comfort against the cold, and I took a slow sip, letting the warmth roll over my tongue. But then I paused, the taste pulling me out of the steady rhythm of the morning.

Sweet. Smooth.

I blinked down at the cup, the warmth of it seeping into my palms, but the heat wasn't what made my breath catch. It was the taste—how it lingered, familiar and unexpected all at once. This wasn't the usual bitter edge of black coffee that Colt drank every morning, the kind I'd seen him make countless times, always the same, always simple. But this... this was different.

Cream. Sugar. Exactly how I liked it.

The realization didn't hit me all at once. It was slow, deliberate, like the way you walk into cold water—inch by inch until it surrounds you, until you can't ignore it. He hadn't just made coffee for me. He'd made it for me. The way I drank it. The way I needed it on mornings like this, when the world felt too heavy and the day stretched out in front of me like something I wasn't sure I could face.