Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
Hazel
The truck pulls out of the lot in silence. Not the comfortable kind. This one sits between us, tight and charged.
I should have stayed home tonight.
The thought hits somewhere between the bar's fading lights and the first stretch of empty road. Should have known Cole would show up. Should have seen it coming. Should have protected that moment better somehow.
But I didn't.
Eli crossed the room. Asked me to dance. And for one perfect second, his hand was in mine and everything else disappeared.
Then Cole showed up and turned everything sharp and public and humiliating.
And now I'm in Eli's truck instead of Shae's car, and the silence between us is so heavy I can barely breathe through it.
I feel it in the way Eli grips the steering wheel. One hand loose, the other firm. Knuckles pale in the passing glow of the bar lights before the road darkens and the world narrows to headlights and dust.
The music from inside still echoes faintly in my ears. Boots. Laughter. The hum of something that had felt good just minutes ago. Now the night feels different. Thinner. Exposed.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye.
His jaw is set, gaze locked on the road ahead like it might offer instructions. He hasn't said a word since we got in. Not when he opened my door. Not when I buckled in. Not even when the tires crunched over gravel and pulled us away from the noise.
He's holding everything tight. The bar. Cole. Chace stepping in before Eli could throw the first punch.
I shift in my seat, the leather warm against my thighs. The silence stretches. Presses.
This won't ease on its own. I could let it sit. Let the weight of it ride all the way back to the ranch, thick and unresolved.
But I don't want that.
We're maybe five minutes out when I finally speak.
The gravel hums under the tires. Windows cracked just enough to let the night in. Music from the dance still rings in my ears—fiddle and boots and laughter lingering like warmth.
"You know," I say, tipping my head toward him, "I think the town should issue a warning before letting you on the dance floor."
He shoots me a look, one brow lifting. "Oh yeah?"
"Absolutely," I say. "Danger to nearby toes. Severe lack of rhythm. Possible emotional distress."
A corner of his mouth twitches. "That right."
"Mm-hmm. I watched three women flee in fear when you came on the dance floor."
He snorts, then slows the truck. "You got a real imagination."
"I'm generous like that."
He doesn't answer. Just eases the truck onto the shoulder where the road widens, kills the engine, and pops his door open. Before I can ask what he's doing, he's out, circling around to my side. He opens my door and holds out his hand.
"Come on."
I look at his hand, then his face. There's something different in his expression now. Lighter. Almost playful.
"Eli."
"Hazel." He says it back like a challenge, mouth twitching at the corner.
"That tone never ends well for me."
"Trust me." His hand is still out, waiting.
I take his hand. He leads me around back, hops up into the bed of the truck in one easy motion, then turns and offers his hand again. I climb up, laughing when he tugs me closer than necessary.
He leans in, voice low. "Gonna show you exactly how bad I am."
The radio crackles to life, country spilling out into the open night. We stand there, framed by dark fields and a sky thick with stars. He takes my hand, the other settling at my waist, and starts to move.
I laugh. "Eli. You're proving my point."
He rolls his eyes. "You're the one counting steps."
"I'm observing."
"Uh-huh."
He tries a spin. It goes crooked. I step on his boot. We both laugh, the sound loose and easy, the way it used to be.
"Careful," I say. "You'll pull something."
"Worth it," he says, grinning.
The song shifts. Slower. Softer. Something about long roads and coming home.
We're still moving, but the playfulness bleeds away with the tempo. His hand slides from my waist to my hip, more instinct than intention, and he pulls me in.
Closer than before.
The laughter fades. Not gone. Just quieter. Like we both feel the moment changing and don't want to break it with sound.
The night feels closer suddenly. The air warmer.
My pulse picks up.
This. This is what I forgot. Not just the dancing or the closeness. But this specific feeling—being held by him. The way my body remembers his before my mind catches up. How natural it feels to be here, in his arms, like no time passed at all.
Like I never left.
The thought should scare me. It doesn't.
He rests his forehead near my temple, humming the tune under his breath, the sound vibrating low and steady. His thumb moves, a small, absent stroke along my hip, back and forth, back and forth.
I swallow.
We sway. Barely dancing now. Just breathing in time. His chest is solid against mine. The way his hand fits there makes my skin buzz.
I tip my head back to look at him.
His eyes drop to my mouth, then lift again.
The air between us feels electric. Charged. Like one wrong move could break whatever this is.
My hand slides up his chest, stopping just below his collarbone. I feel the beat there. Strong. Certain. Faster than it should be.
He's not breathing steady either.
"Hazel," he says, voice rough. Not a question. Not quite a warning. Just my name, like he's testing it on his tongue.
The space between us thins.
I should step back. Give us both room to think. To remember all the reasons this is complicated.
But I don't want to.
His hand tightens on my hip. Anchoring.
His head dips. Mine tilts.
I can feel his breath against my mouth. Warm. Close.
My eyes start to close—
Headlights flare down the road.
A pickup roars past, engine loud, dust kicking up in its wake. The moment snaps clean in two.
He steps back like he's been burned, breath leaving him in a rush.
"Guess I win," he says. "Not a horrible dancer."
I smile, heat still humming under my skin. "I'll give you… improved."
He hops down, offers his hand again. I take it. When we slide back into the cab, the radio still plays, softer now, like it knows.
We drive the rest of the way in easy quiet. But the space between us feels different.
The truck rolls to a stop in front of the house, headlights washing over the porch rail and the worn steps. Gravel crunches once more as he cuts the engine, the night settling in around us.
He's out before I have time to unbuckle, already moving around the hood. He opens my door and holds out his hand like it's second nature.
I take it.
The ground is cool beneath my boots. We walk towards the steps together, close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my side, close enough that neither of us comments on it. The house looms quiet, porch light glowing soft and familiar.
At the bottom step, he slows.
"I shouldn't have almost lost it back there," he says. His voice is low, scraped raw around the edges. "With Cole."
I turn toward him. Really look at him now. The tension still coiled in his shoulders, restraint holding him together.
"It's okay," I say. "Cole's had it coming for a long time."
That earns a breath of a laugh. Something loosens.
We climb the steps. The porch boards creak beneath our weight, a sound I've known my whole life. He stops near the door, hands sliding into his pockets like he's giving himself something to do with them.
For a second, neither of us moves.
I shift, needing air. "Next time we're out dancing," I say, lighter than I feel, "we're definitely working on those moves."
He nods once, something softening in his expression. "Next time."
He steps back, nods again like that's the end of it, and turns away.
He makes it two steps.
"Fuck it," he mutters to himself.
I barely have time to register the words before he's back—boots thudding against the porch, hands already on me, decisive and sure. He grabs my face, fingers warm and familiar along my jaw, and kisses me hard.
Not careful. Not slow.
The kiss lands with force, all heat and muscle memory, like something that's been held back too long. I gasp into it, my back hitting the door as he presses in, solid and overwhelming. His mouth moves against mine like he remembers exactly how. Like he never forgot.
My hands come up on instinct, clutching his shirt, pulling him closer. The night tilts. My pulse roars in my ears. Everything sharpens—the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the heat of his body, the way his grip tightens like he's anchoring himself.
His kiss deepens, hungry and sure, and for a breathless moment the world narrows to this porch, this body, this familiar gravity snapping back into place.
Then he pulls back.
His forehead rests against mine, breath heavy, hands still framing my face like letting go would be a mistake.
"I just needed to know," he says, voice rough and quiet, "that you're still there."
Then he drops his hands.
Steps back.
Turns and walks off the porch without looking back, boots hitting gravel, the sound fading into the dark.
I don't move.
My lips burn. My heart is pounding hard enough I can feel it everywhere. I stare after him, breath coming uneven, the night suddenly too quiet around me.
I press my palm flat against the door behind me, grounding myself, and swallow.