Sleep didn't come easy.

It never does when your body's wrecked and your mind's worse off. It came in fits—shallow, twisted stretches of half-dreams that kept dragging me back to the dirt, to the sound of Colt's breath leaving him, to the look in his eyes.

Every hour or so, a nurse would slip in and take my vitals. Gentle hands, soft murmurs. I didn't blame them, but each time I stirred awake, it felt like surfacing from underwater just long enough to remember I was drowning. They'd offer more pain meds, and I'd take them—not because I wanted the relief, but because it gave me an excuse not to feel anything at all.

They'd put my arm in a sling. Every time I rolled over, I felt it there, pressing down on my ribs like the weight of everything I couldn't stop.

By the time morning crept through the blinds, I felt hollowed out. A dull hum of pain beneath my skin reminded me that I was still here, still breathing—though I wasn't sure why. The tray in front of me held what they must've called breakfast. Scrambled eggs that looked like they'd been wrung dry. Bacon limp and pale. Toast sweating under a dome of condensation. I took a bite anyway, just to feel something. Swallowed it down like dust.

I was forcing down a sip of lukewarm coffee when the TV flickered. Some local morning show, cheerful and rehearsed. I didn't pay attention—not until I heard his name.

Colt Langmore.

I looked up fast, like I'd been yanked by a string.

There he was—plastered on the screen like nothing had changed. Footage of him riding Outlaw from weeks ago, maybe months. That same crooked grin, eyes squinting into the sun, all swagger and silence and grit. A photo from some previous ride, probably pulled from the circuit files. They always used the pretty pictures—never the aftermath.

The news anchor didn't flinch as she spoke, voice bright like she was reporting on a school fundraiser. "...injured late last night at Canyon Ridge Center. Both Langmore and barrel racer Lemon Odell were taken to nearby hospitals after an incident involving a loose bull. Langmore underwent emergency surgery. Officials have not yet confirmed the source of the breach, but competition is expected to resume this afternoon."

And then, softer: "Odell is said to have fared better."

I stared at the screen, stomach curdling. My hands clenched in the blanket. I pushed the tray away, the clatter sharper than I meant it to be.

They didn't know. None of them did. Not the reporter in her pressed blazer, not the rodeo officials lining up to keep the show rolling. They didn't know what it felt like to kneel in the dirt beside someone and not know if they'd ever open their eyes again. They didn't know the sound of silence after a scream. That awful, breathless pause where you start to believe maybe this is it.

The TV kept going, flashing more footage, more noise. I couldn't listen. I slid my legs over the side of the bed, muscles stiff and reluctant, and reached for the clear plastic bag labeled PATIENT PROPERTY. My boots were still caked in dried dirt and blood, the laces stiff. At the bottom of the bag, my phone—screen cracked, black in one corner—sat like a reminder of the night I hadn't quite walked away from.

I stood slowly, careful not to jar my shoulder. Everything hurt.

But it wasn't until I looked up and saw my reflection in the mirror above the sink that the breath caught in my throat.

The bruises had bloomed overnight.

The side of my face looked like something had been poured across it and left to rot—deep purples bled into shadows of blue and yellow. My bottom lip was split, just enough to sting when I moved it, and my hair—usually thick, unruly but mine—hung limp in oily, matted ropes. The white of the bandage across my shoulder stood out against everything else like it didn't belong to my body at all.

I raised my good hand and tried to tuck some hair behind my ear, smooth the mess into something that resembled human. But it was useless. The girl in the mirror didn't look like someone who'd "fared better." She looked like someone who'd walked through hell and gotten spit back out, pieces missing.

I didn't recognize her.

Not really.

I picked up my phone, the crack running diagonally across the screen like a fault line. Notifications lit up—calls, texts, most of them from Laney. The rest from numbers I didn't feel like deciphering yet.

Laney: Please let me know when you get this. We're worried about you.

Laney: If I don't hear from you soon, I'm flying out. Piper and James miss you.

I stared at her name, her words, and I could almost picture her in that tidy Denver kitchen—her kids spilling cereal on the floor, her phone clutched tight in one hand, pacing between the sink and the window, biting at her thumbnail even though she'd sworn off that habit.

She always was the one who held the center when everything else spun out.

I hated that I was the reason she was unraveling now.

My hand trembled as I typed.

Lemon: I'm OK. Don't worry. I love you all.

The message sent before I could change my mind.

A second later, my screen lit again.

Laney: Not kidding, Lemon. I can't sleep. Bad dreams. Call when you can. We love you too.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I had so much I wanted to say. So many pieces of last night still stuck between my ribs, sharp and raw. But words felt like tissue paper now. Not strong enough to carry any of it.

Lemon: OK. I promise I'll call later.

I wouldn't. Not yet. The truth was too ugly to speak out loud.

I set the phone aside and let the silence close back in around me. The room felt smaller now. Colder. The no-slip socks on my feet were too cheerful—bright blue with little grips shaped like stars. Someone must've put them on me while I was out. That thought made me feel smaller somehow, like a child who couldn't be trusted to take care of herself.

Fared better. The phrase echoed again. Bit down.

I stood slowly, careful of my shoulder. The ache was deeper now, like the pain had grown roots. I wasn't built for waiting.

Especially not like this—idle, aching, stripped of anything useful. Back home, when something hurt, you grit your teeth, wrapped it tight, and kept working. Didn't matter if it throbbed or bruised or bled a little—there was always a stall that needed mucking out, a horse that didn't care what you'd been through the night before. Life didn't stop for pain.

But this—this sitting, this limping through white walls and wheeled hallways, wrapped in gauze and half-silence—this wasn't pain I knew how to walk off. Not when it didn't come from my own doing.

The door creaked open. A nurse stepped in, her scrubs patterned with little red hearts that looked like they belonged in a children's ward. She smiled like none of us were broken.

"Oh good, you're up," she said gently. "A police detective will be by soon. They'd like to have you and Mr. Langmore give your statements together."

Statements. That word had a weight to it now. Cold. Official. Like this was just another line in some file that didn't have room for the real story.

I didn't speak. Just let her help me into a robe and motion to the wheelchair beside the bed. I hesitated. Pride flared, sharp and stupid—but the second I tried to stand, my back locked, and my legs gave just enough to remind me I wasn't in charge here. The nurse didn't push. Just held the chair steady and let me fold into it.

The hallway was too quiet. Every door we passed felt like another version of someone else's worst day.

I counted ceiling tiles just to keep from counting breaths.

By the time we reached the surgical floor, my stomach had twisted itself into a knot too tight to undo. The nurse stopped us outside his room, her hand pausing on the door like she wasn't sure if she should knock.

But I didn't wait.

The door was cracked already, the low hum of machines filtering out into the corridor. I could hear him before I saw him.

Propped up, pale beneath the tan he always carried. Gauze wrapped his forearm, and a bright pink cast peeked out from the edge—like some nurse had tried to dress a wound with bubblegum. Tubes and wires crisscrossed the space around him like a fence, like if they just wove tight enough, they could hold him here.

His chest rose with effort, but he was breathing. Alive.

That should've been enough.

"No more narcotics," Colt muttered, his voice low and dry like gravel under boot. "I told you already."

I leaned back slightly in the chair, swallowing the heat rising in my throat. "I'm not a nurse," I said. My voice came out small, tight. Strained.

His eyes cracked open, slow and heavy. And even through the fog of pain, they found me.

That blue—storm-washed and steady. Tired, but sharp underneath. And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, that crooked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Honey," he rasped, "you look like hell."

"You're no prize yourself," I murmured, trying to keep it light, but the words came out thinner than I meant them to. The ache behind my eyes pulsed harder. Every inch of me hurt, but nothing compared to the way it hurt seeing him like this—torn open in ways that couldn't be stitched shut.

Colt let out a low sound, almost a laugh, but it didn't carry. "Yeah," he said, eyes flicking toward the cast like it offended him. "Don't reckon I will be again."

That hit deeper than I expected. It wasn't self-pity—it was worse. It was quiet resignation. That dangerous edge of a man starting to believe the worst parts of the story he'd been handed.

I shifted forward, careful not to jar my shoulder. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at the bandages wrapped around his arm like they were a verdict. His voice, when it came, was flat. "They said the bones shattered. Too many pieces. I might not get the strength back... not fully. I won't be ready in time for Nationals, even if I tried."

His throat bobbed, jaw tightening. "And even if I was—what kind of rider goes out like this?" He motioned to the cast with a slight lift of his good hand. "A damn cartoon character."

"You think anyone gives a damn what color your cast is?" I asked, the edge in my voice sharper now. "That bull should've killed you, Colt. But you're here. Breathing. And you're still pissed because the cast is pink?"

"It's not about the damn cast," he bit out, then let his head fall back against the pillow with a wince. "It's not about any of that."

I waited, let the silence stretch.

Then he turned his head, met my eyes. "It's the feeling. Like the second you start getting back on your feet, life's just waiting to knock you down again. And this time, I don't know if I've got anything left to get back up with."

The silence settled like dust between us, slow and heavy. I watched the way his eyes drifted back to that cast—how long he stared at it, like if he looked hard enough, he could undo the truth sitting underneath.

It wasn't just his hand. It was everything that hand had stood for—years of grit and fire and control. And now it was caged up in cotton and fiberglass like some piece of him had been stripped bare.

I knew that kind of grief. The slow kind. The one that doesn't scream or sob—it just hollows you out, inch by inch.

"Colt," I said quietly, the edge softening out of my voice, "you've taken more hits than most men could crawl away from. And you're still here. This isn't the end. Not for you."

His gaze broke from the cast, met mine. And for a second, all the fight in him faltered. Just enough for the truth to rise to the surface—raw and worn-down.

"I don't feel strong," he admitted, voice rough around the edges like it had to claw its way out. "Feels like everything I've built is cracking right under me. And I can't stop it. Can't hold it together."

I didn't say anything right away. Just reached for his free hand, the one not wrapped in gauze. His skin was warm, rough, familiar—like something I could hold onto while the rest of the world kept falling apart. My fingers slipped between his, gentle, but firm enough to remind him he wasn't alone in this mess.

"Then I'll hold it together for you," I whispered. "For as long as you need."

He didn't speak, just looked at me—really looked. Like maybe he was trying to memorize the way I said it, in case everything else slipped away. Slowly, he curled his fingers around mine. Not tight. Just enough.

My gaze dropped to the cast again—bright, ridiculous pink against everything that made him who he was. I huffed out a breath, shaking my head.

"Well, at least now I know what color not to get you for Christmas," I muttered.

He blinked, and something passed over his face—amusement, maybe. A tired smile tugged at his mouth. "You gonna roast me now, after everything?"

"Absolutely," I said, grabbing the Sharpie from the shelf behind me. "Matter of principle."

He raised a brow as I leaned in, the scent of antiseptic and worn leather lingering around him. I uncapped the pen and scrawled my name across the side of the cast, slow and deliberate. Big enough he wouldn't miss it. Bold enough that if he forgot who he was for a second, maybe he'd see it and remember.

When I finished, I pulled back and met his eyes again. "There. Now it's not just a cast. It's a promise."

Colt stared down at it, quiet for a beat. Then, without looking at me, he said, "You always write like that?"

I grinned faintly. "Only when it matters."

He went silent, and for a moment it felt like we could stay like that. In the quiet. In the pause between everything breaking and whatever came next.

But the world doesn't let you rest for long.

There was a knock, soft but not tentative. Then the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside, tall and lean, with salt-and-pepper hair and a suit that had seen better days. His badge hung from a worn leather holder clipped to his belt. He didn't bother flashing it—he didn't need to. The air around him shifted the second he crossed the threshold. Quiet authority. The kind that said he'd been in rooms like this too many times to count.

"Detective Bywater," he said, voice even but tired. "Mind if I come in?"

Colt didn't answer. Just gave a faint nod that didn't quite hide the way his jaw tightened.

I sat up a little straighter, spine aching from the strain. "We don't know much," I said before he could ask. "But we'll tell you what we can."

He pulled up the chair from the corner and sat, folding his hands loosely in his lap. "That's all I need."

And just like that, we were back inside it. The night. The chute. The laughter that hadn't sounded right. Boone's hand on the latch. Outlaw. Everything.

The detective didn't say much. Just asked his questions with a kind of stillness that made it hard to breathe. He took notes in a battered notebook, nodding now and then. When I mentioned the photo I'd taken before it all went south, he lifted his brows and asked to see it.

My hand shook a little as I unlocked my phone and passed it to him. He studied the screen, silent for longer than I expected. His thumb swiped once. Then again.

There was something in his expression—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, or maybe in his eyes. Not surprise. More like recognition.

"You know them?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away. Just set the phone on the side table and exhaled through his nose. "I've seen their names float across my desk more than once. Never anything that stuck. But this?" He tapped the phone once. "This is something."

When he stood, it was with the weight of someone who knew what came next wouldn't be easy—for us, or for him.

"Thank you," he said, voice quieter now. "I'll be in touch. This... this helps more than you know."

He gave Colt a nod. "You're lucky to be here."

Colt didn't reply. He just looked out the window like he hadn't heard a damn word.

The detective walked me back to my room, the wheels of the chair humming low against the linoleum. I kept my eyes forward. Focused on the hall ahead. But when we reached the door, I turned back.

Just once.

Colt sat there, half in shadow, the light from the window catching the edge of his jaw. He looked tired. Hollowed out. But still... here.

And for now, that had to be enough.

Ω

The days that followed unraveled slow.

The ranch moved on like it always did—like it had no idea someone nearly died. Animals needed feeding. Fences needed fixing. Morning sun still crept in through the same broken slats in the barn roof. I filled the hours with chores, the kind that hurt my shoulder just enough to make me feel present. Real.

But grief has teeth. And it doesn't care if your hands are busy.

The loft held his boots. His duffel. That flannel he always shrugged off and left behind.

But not him.

The absence settled like a second skin—silent, constant, impossible to shake. He was still healing miles away, but everything in me already ached for the sound of him walking across my floor. For the quiet presence that had always said more than his words ever did.

And nothing—no sun-up feedings, no worn routines—could touch the space he left behind.