"Colt," I said again, low and steady, soft as the wind outside but laced with the same quiet warning I'd used three times already. "You need to sit down. Prop your damn foot up. Take the meds. Sleep."

He didn't answer me—just kept dragging that boot through the gravel like it weighed a hundred pounds, like giving in would be some kind of surrender he couldn't stomach. The limp was worse tonight. Shoulder stiff in the sling, cast catching the last of the dusk light and glowing ridiculous and pink like a dare someone lost. He hated it. I could tell by the way he wouldn't look at it.

Watching him now, there was a tightness in my chest I didn't know what to do with. I'd seen him bruised before. Bloodied. But this—this kind of broken—it lived in the quiet, in the slowness, in the way he winced when he thought I wasn't watching. He'd stop every few steps and pretend he was just adjusting something. But I knew. I always knew.

I hated how familiar it all felt.

My mother's voice drifted back to me—uninvited, unwelcome. The way she'd hovered around Daddy after a rough ride. Her tone, part steel and part ache, as she coaxed him out of stubbornness and into a chair. I used to stand in the hallway and promise myself I'd never become her. Never fall into that rhythm of tending to a man who wouldn't quit, no matter what it cost him.

But here I was.

Same cadence. Same helpless pull

And it didn't matter how hard I fought it—life always had a way of turning us into the people we swore we'd never be.

"One damn hour, Lemon," Colt muttered, his voice rough and tired, the words sliding slow off his tongue like they didn't have the strength to land. "Just let me get up there. I'll take the meds later."

I didn't answer. Just reached for his hand without thinking, fingers curling around his the way they had in the ambulance. The way they always did when words failed. His grip was weak. Shaky. But still there. Still Colt, even if less of him showed now than used to.

The barn cats darted ahead as we stepped inside, their eyes gleaming judgment from the rafters. Normally, I would've made some comment, nudged him into laughing at their indifference. But not tonight. Tonight all I could feel was the heat of his body leaning into mine—not too much, just enough to make me ache for what he was trying not to ask for.

Every step up the loft stairs felt like a risk. Not just for him. For me too.

Because I could feel it—how close he was to unraveling. And how close I was to following.

"That's all I need," Colt muttered, half under his breath like maybe if he said it quiet enough, it'd start to feel true. "Few more days, I'll be back to normal."

But we both knew better.

He didn't look at me when he said it, and I didn't press. Some lies ain't meant to be argued with—they're just scaffolding, shaky and temporary, holding up what little hope a man's got left. So I didn't say a damn word. Just helped him through the last steps inside like I believed him.

He dropped down onto the edge of the bed like gravity had finally caught up with him. A sharp breath hissed between his teeth, his face folding around the pain like it was something familiar—something he'd learned to carry without complaint. The sling pulled across his chest, his whole frame coiled tight like even resting was a fight.

I stood there for a second, hands useless at my sides, watching the man I'd known as unshakable come undone inch by inch. There weren't words for that kind of moment. Just the ache of it settling in your chest, slow and deep.

When Colt was still laid up in that hospital bed, Caleb had shown up at Windwalker with a couple of duffels slung over one shoulder. Didn't say much. Just set them down on the porch and looked at me like he hadn't slept in a week.

There was something different in his eyes that day—something cracked. Caleb wasn't the type to show much. He'd rather talk about broken fence lines and overdue feed orders than anything that mattered. But that morning, his silence said more than words ever could. Whatever he'd seen when he visited Colt, it'd rattled him. Enough to make him drive all the way out here just to drop off boots and a blanket.

He leaned back against his truck, engine still humming low, arms crossed tight over his chest. "Tell Colt he doesn't need to play hero," he said, eyes cutting toward the barn. "Nationals'll still be there in a few months. He won't be if he keeps pushing like this."

That was Caleb's way of pleading—rough, indirect, said through his boots instead of his mouth.

I hadn't said anything back. Just nodded. But the weight of it stuck with me.

And now, watching Colt wince every time he shifted in bed, I could still hear Caleb's voice—low, steady, tired. Not from the drive. From caring. From knowing what it looks like when someone you love tries to walk through fire before their skin's grown back.

Mama used to say bull riders didn't know how to sit still unless they were broken, and even then, half of 'em would crawl right back to the chutes if they thought they had one good hand left. She'd said it like a curse. Like a warning. And I'd sworn she was wrong- that she didn't know Colt.

But maybe she did.

Because here he was—torn up and stitched back together with thread too thin to hold—and still, all he could think about was getting back in that arena.

And all I could think about was how long he'd last before it swallowed him whole.

"Get some rest," I said softly, tucking the blanket down near the foot of the bed like it might somehow make the night easier to bear. "You'll need your strength if you're still dead-set on proving Caleb wrong."

He gave me that crooked smirk—what was left of it, anyway. A shadow of its usual self. "Ain't about proving him wrong," Colt muttered, his words slow, heavy, like even that little bit took more out of him than he wanted to admit. "It's about not lettin' him be right."

There it was. That quiet pride that never asked to be noticed, just kept showing up, bleeding through the cracks.

I watched him move across the room, slower than usual—like each breath cost him something. He tossed his phone onto the coffee table without looking, the thud too loud in the quiet. Then he started on his shirt buttons, working them one at a time with his good hand. The other hung limp, helpless in the sling, like a part of him had been muted.

His chest was still taped up, ribs bruised and tight beneath the wrap. I could see it now—everything he'd tried to shield me from back at the hospital. The mottled skin. The swelling. The pain he hadn't once complained about.

And maybe that was the worst part. Watching him hold himself together with nothing but grit and silence, like admitting hurt would make it real.

"You need to rest that arm," I said, quieter now. The words caught in my throat a little—too soft to be a scold, too honest to pretend I wasn't scared for him.

He didn't argue this time. Just nodded once, jaw clenched. "Yeah," he said, eyes dropping to the floor. "I know."

I stepped closer without meaning to, my fingers brushing the brim of his hat where it sat crooked on his head. He stiffened—not from pain, but from something else. His breath hitched just slightly. Eyes closed, then opened again, slower this time, clouded with something I couldn't name.

Grief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or just the quiet way men like him carry their weight without ever asking you to help.

I slid the hat off gently, setting it down on the table beside him. My fingers lingered a moment longer than they should've.

"Is it safe to take the sling off?" I asked, barely above a whisper. I didn't mean it to sound like a question with a dozen other ones buried underneath, but it came out that way anyway.

Colt glanced at me, the barest tug of a smile flickering across his face. Tired. Familiar. "Only if you're fixin' to wash my hair after."

That little spark in his eyes was still there, tucked behind the bruises and exhaustion. It didn't shine like it used to—but it hadn't gone out.

I gave him a look, one brow raised. "Don't get ahead of yourself, cowboy. That kind of service costs extra."

Colt let out a quiet chuckle—that low, worn sound that always hit somewhere behind my ribs. It wasn't the full kind, not the one that made his eyes crinkle or shook his shoulders. This one came slower, like it had to fight its way through everything that hurt.

He glanced over at me, that familiar flicker in his gaze—half challenge, half surrender—but whatever smartass remark he might've had on deck didn't make it to the surface. He just exhaled, looking down at the sling like he couldn't decide if it belonged to him or someone else. "I'll try not to take it personal," he muttered, and even that felt like more than he had in him.

I stepped closer before I could think better of it, my hand hovering an inch from his shoulder. Not quite touching. Just close enough to ask permission.

There was always that space between us—thin as air, heavy as truth. The line between helping and overstepping. And I never knew which side of it I was standing on until I crossed it.

"Here," I said, voice soft as breath. "Let me."

He didn't argue. Didn't give me that stubborn set of his jaw or a lazy retort. Just stilled, quiet and still like he'd finally stopped trying to carry it all himself. I slid the sling away slow, careful not to pull too hard. His body flinched under my hands. Not much, but enough to feel it. Enough to remind me that this was real—not just a bad night, but a wound that had set up camp in his bones.

"You can't keep pushing through like this," I said under my breath, more to the room than to him. "It'll catch up."

He sank deeper into the couch, the worn leather groaning beneath him. His head tipped back for a second, jaw tight with pain. But when his eyes opened, they found mine, and for the first time tonight, there wasn't any fight left in them. Just tired truth.

"I know," he said, voice rough around the edges. "But I ain't built for sittin' still."

I nodded, a smile tugging at my mouth, quiet and knowing. "Then we'll call it practice."

I held the blanket out for him, and when his hand reached for it, our fingers brushed—barely. But the spark it left in its wake was sharp and warm, like something flickering to life between two things that had been drifting too close for too long.

He didn't look away. Just watched me with that same steady intensity I'd come to recognize—like he was measuring more than the moment. Like maybe he saw something in me he didn't have a name for yet. And for once, I didn't back down from it.

I stayed.

The silence between us thickened, not uncomfortable—just full. Heavy in the way that meant something was there, waiting to be spoken or maybe just held.

He made everything feel sharper. Every breath, every glance, every inch of space between us. But somehow, standing in the pull of him, I didn't feel weighed down. I felt tethered. Like even if I was falling, I had something to fall toward.

"You should get some rest," I said, soft as a lullaby I didn't quite believe in. The words slipped out before I could second-guess them—quiet, gentle, maybe more of a plea than I meant them to be.

Colt didn't answer right away. Just held my gaze with those storm-colored eyes, the silence stretching long and full between us. There was something in the way he looked at me—like he was trying to memorize the shape of the moment, or maybe the shape of me. Then, with a slow breath, he nodded once.

"Yeah," he murmured, voice low and rough, already giving in to the weight tugging at his bones. "You too, Lemon."

The way he said my name made something stir inside me. Soft. Unsettling. Like it meant more than either of us had time to unpack.

I didn't move at first. Just stood there, watching the fight fade from his face inch by inch. It didn't vanish all at once—Colt Langmore didn't let go easy—but the tension that lived in his shoulders, the tightness around his mouth, it all began to ease. Bit by bit. Breath by breath.

And still, I stayed.

Like leaving would unravel whatever fragile peace we'd managed to stitch together in the space between pain and silence.

Eventually, though, I turned. My steps were slow, deliberate. I reached the door, hand brushing the frame, the wood cool beneath my fingertips. I could feel the night pressing in beyond the barn, that particular stillness that only comes when the world is holding its breath. I paused, without really knowing why.

Maybe it was the quiet. Or maybe it was that invisible thread that always seemed to pull me back to him.

I glanced over my shoulder one last time.

He was already halfway to sleep, his body sinking into the mattress, chest rising steady now. But his presence still filled the room like a held breath—something unspoken, waiting.

I didn't say anything. Didn't have to. The air between us already carried enough.