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Life on the ranch had slowed to a crawl since Colt came home from the hospital. Not the kind of slow that feels restful—this was the kind that hangs heavy in your chest, a dull throb under everything. Like the whole place was holding its breath and didn't know how to let go.

The rodeo chaos was long gone now, replaced by something quieter but no less demanding. Chores still needed doing, animals still needed feeding, and the sun still rose whether we felt ready for it or not. But each day felt like I was moving underwater—repetitive, aching, and strangely detached, like I was watching myself go through the motions from someplace else.

The pain in my ribs had settled into something permanent. Not sharp anymore—just a slow burn that made itself known every time I lifted a bale wrong or twisted too fast. It had become part of my rhythm now. Like the limp I didn't want, or the scar I hadn't asked for. I'd stopped expecting it to disappear. Some aches just stay.

Colt wasn't faring much better. He still carried himself like a man untouched by weakness, but it wasn't true anymore. His movements had changed—slower, tighter. That left shoulder of his didn't lift like it used to. He'd grit his teeth and work through the pain, but I could see it. I always saw it.

He wouldn't let me help—not really. Wouldn't admit when he needed a break, wouldn't let me carry the heavier buckets even if his good arm was trembling under the weight. That kind of pride, that kind of stubborn—it's carved into a man like him. Maybe it was always going to be.

But there were cracks now. Small ones. I saw them in the quiet. In the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. In the long pauses between words. There was something new in him—a kind of tired that went bone-deep. It didn't speak loud, but it was there. And I didn't know how to fix it.

When I came up from the barn that morning, sore and covered in dust, the sight of him leaning against the fence didn't surprise me. Red and Honey were at his side, brushing their noses against his hand as he fed them sliced carrots from the pocket of his coat. He was talking low, voice barely above a whisper, like he thought they were the only ones worth sharing his truths with.

I stopped in the grass and watched him for a beat longer than I should've. There was something about that moment—soft and unscripted—that made it hard to look away.

At least he was sticking to the lighter work, like I'd asked. That was a start. I'd practically had to fight him to rest at all. I'd offered him the books to organize, the feed schedules to map out, even the vendor calls. Things he could do sitting down. But that wasn't what Colt needed. He didn't know what to do with stillness. His body was used to moving, to fighting, to breaking and mending. He didn't know how to just... be.

I watched the way his fingers curled around the fence post—tight, stubborn. He was holding back, barely. Like if he let himself go full still, he might disappear.

"Morning," I called, stepping toward the spigot near the shed and letting the cold water wash the dust from my hands. The sting in my ribs flared sharp as I bent, but I swallowed it. Didn't let it show. Colt had enough to carry. He didn't need to carry me, too.

I didn't hear him come up behind me, but I felt him—first in the shift of air, then in the way his arms eased around my waist, slow and deliberate. His touch was careful, like he didn't want to startle me, like he was asking a question without speaking it out loud. I didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Just stood there, still, and let myself feel it.

He rested his chin lightly against the back of my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. There was a tremble in him—so faint most folks wouldn't catch it—but I knew better. Knew the effort it took for him to stand like that, to offer anything at all when his body had been hollowed out by pain and stubbornness and whatever quiet war was still playing out inside him.

I leaned back into him, just a little. Let my head tip until it brushed his. That small gesture—that weightless give—felt like more than anything I could've said.

Somewhere along the way, this became normal. His hands on my hips, the scrape of his stubble against my neck, the way we fit into the in-between parts of each day like we'd been shaped to do it. I didn't know when it happened. Maybe it started in the silence between chores. Maybe it was that first night in the barn, long before the accident, when he'd sat across from me by the tack room door and didn't say much, but somehow said enough.

I used to believe there was a line between people like me and people like him—a space you didn't cross. Tex raised us like that. Built fences with words and warnings, told us to mind our place and keep our distance from the boys who came and went with the seasons.

But Colt hadn't come and gone. He stayed. Long enough for the dust to settle around him. Long enough that the weight he carried started to feel like something I could shoulder, too.

I shut the hose off and wiped my hands against my jeans, his presence still pressed close behind me. The sun was starting to rise higher, warm and bright across the pasture, but the chill in my bones hadn't left. Not really.

He didn't say anything at first. Just let the quiet stretch between us, arms still wrapped around my waist like the world might slip if he let go.

Then, low and rough in my ear, "Mornin', darlin'."

That voice of his always did something to me. Like gravel and smoke, but gentle when it needed to be.

I felt him smile against my shoulder before I saw it. One of those half-smiles he tried to play off, like it didn't mean anything.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, voice laced with that dry drawl, but I caught the thread of something else beneath it. Something softer. Something that felt a lot like need.

I turned into him, hands sliding up the back of his neck, fingers brushing through the thick of his hair like muscle memory. "Just finished up at the barn," I murmured, letting my voice stay soft, easy. "Figured I'd check on you. See what kind of trouble you're stirring up out here."

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and half-lidded. Tired, but there. "Trouble?" he echoed, tipping his chin toward Red and Honey, who were still working their way through the last of the carrots. "Think I'm just tryin' to stay out of it."

"I don't buy that for a second," I said, my voice low but teasing. My hands stayed where they were, thumb grazing the side of his neck. "You've been on your feet too long."

His eyes didn't leave mine. "You checkin' on me or givin' orders now?"

"Both," I said plainly. "Someone's gotta."

He didn't argue, but he didn't move either. Just held me there, arms still looped around my waist like that was where I belonged. The weight of him settled into me—not just the warmth of his body, but the quiet exhaustion beneath it. It was all in his touch. In the way he didn't grip tight, didn't pull—just held, like he didn't know what else to do.

"You're supposed to be resting," I added, quieter now.

"This is resting," he muttered. "Horses don't talk back. It's peaceful."

I exhaled, barely a laugh. "Until one of 'em kicks you for stealing their carrots."

His chest rumbled behind me, soft and steady. "I'd take that over another painkiller."

The sun had dropped low behind the ridge, turning the sky soft and amber, like someone had poured honey across the horizon. It cast everything in gold—his face, the barn, the tips of the dry grass swaying at our feet. The dust caught in the air shimmered like embers, like the world had slowed just enough to let it burn gentle for once.

That light softened him.

It traced along the bruising beneath his eyes, the cut just above his brow, and for the first time in days, I didn't just see the damage. I saw the man beneath it—still standing, still here, still him. Even if he was held together by stubbornness and threadbare pride, there was something unbroken in the way he looked at me.

"You worry too much," he said, voice low and warm against my temple, like gravel warmed by the sun.

I turned my face toward him, barely thinking, and pressed a kiss beneath his jaw—soft, instinctive. Like I'd been doing it for years.

"And you don't worry enough," I whispered.

He leaned back just enough to meet my eyes, his hands still resting at my hips like they'd settled there without asking permission. That look he gave me—quiet and searching—had weight to it. The kind of weight that didn't ask for answers, just waited for the truth to rise on its own.

After a long beat, he nodded once, almost to himself.

"We balance each other out, then."

Simple. True. And somehow heavier than anything either of us had said all week.

"I know you can handle it," I said, my fingers sliding slow down the back of his neck, trailing the edge of his collar like I was trying to memorize the shape of him before it all changed again. My voice softened. "But I want you to heal because..."

I paused. Not because I didn't know what came next—but because I did.

Nationals weren't just a date circled on the calendar. They were a countdown. And the closer we got, the louder the clock ticked inside my chest. I wanted him whole—but every step toward that meant a step closer to him leaving. That truth sat heavy in my stomach, bitter and quiet. I didn't want to say it out loud. I didn't want to hand it too much power.

Before I could finish, Colt's hand shifted on my waist, pulling me in closer—not rough, not rushed, just enough that I felt all of him. The heat, the weight, the wanting. His chest brushed mine, and my breath caught like it was snagged on a fence post. He was steady, sure, but something behind his eyes flickered—raw and open like he didn't know how to be seen and let it happen anyway.

"I just want to know where your head's at," I managed, quieter now. "I know Nationals are on your mind."

He didn't speak. Just turned from me, slow and measured, his hand finding Honey's mane like it grounded him. His knuckles were still scraped, scarred over from that night—just healed enough to remind us both of what hadn't gone away.

"I'm angry," he said finally, and his voice wasn't sharp—it was tired. Strained. "I've done every damn thing they told me to do. I've taken the meds. Shown up to every appointment. Hell, I even stopped drinking coffee for a week, like that was supposed to fix it. And still it hurts." There was a ghost of a smile, but it didn't hold. Not really. It collapsed before it reached his eyes. "Feels like my body's quittin' before I am."

He let out a breath through his nose, the kind that felt more like defeat than relief. "And I hate it. I hate feeling like this."

I stepped in beside him, resting my hand gently on his forearm. He didn't flinch, but I could feel the tension buzzing just beneath the skin.

"It's gonna take time," I said. "You can't outrun this."

"I don't have time, Lemon."

He didn't shout it. He didn't need to. The way he said it was enough—it carried weight. Like it had been living in him too long, scratching at the walls, looking for a way out.

His eyes dropped to the dirt, jaw tightening. "I just wanna help," he said, quieter now. "I see you out here, doing everything. Running this place. Taking care of the animals. Taking care of me."

His voice cracked on that last part, like it hurt to admit. "And I'm just... standing here. Useless."

He dragged a hand through his hair, that worn-out look settling back across his face. "This ain't what you hired me for. You didn't sign up for this."

My hand slid up his arm and settled at his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled tight beneath his skin. His muscles twitched under my palm, like even stillness was something he didn't trust. I didn't press. I just held on.

"Colt," I said, low. "I didn't sign up for easy."

He looked at me then—really looked. That storm-colored blue hitting hard like it always did, but this time there was no armor behind it. No bravado. Just a man trying to hold together what was left.

"This isn't about proving anything," I added, quieter now. "You don't owe me that. You don't owe anyone that."

He shook his head, slow and subtle, like he couldn't quite get the words to match what he was feeling. "I know," he rasped. "But I don't know how to do this." His voice caught on the edges, raw and bare. "Depending on someone else... it feels like I'm failing."

He said it like a confession. Like it cost him something real.

And maybe it did.

"You're not failing," I told him, the words quiet but sure. "You've been carrying too much for too long, and it's okay to set it down for a minute. Just long enough to breathe."

He didn't say anything. Just held my gaze like he was looking for proof I meant it.

The wind moved through the pasture, soft and slow. The horses nudged closer to the fence, but I didn't notice much beyond him—beyond the space we were standing in, barely more than a breath between breaking and holding on.

And maybe he felt it too, because his hand slipped from Honey's mane and lifted toward me. He brushed my cheek—tentative, calloused fingers dragging slow against skin like he wasn't sure he had the right to touch something that hadn't already been broken.

"I don't think I'll ever be enough," he said, barely more than a whisper. The way he said it—it didn't sound like a confession. It sounded like a scar.

And just like that, I felt something inside me crack open. Not in pain—but in recognition.

Because I'd felt that way too. All my life. In the silence of the house after Mama left. In the long shadow of the Odell name. In every moment I tried to measure up and came up short.

So I didn't rush to fix it. Didn't tell him he was wrong or that he shouldn't feel that way.

Instead, I leaned into the weight of it. Let it settle between us like truth. Because the kind of ache Colt carried couldn't be smoothed over with soft words.