Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Hazel
The rain is louder in here.
It hammers the metal roof in uneven bursts, a sharp, hollow sound that fills the space and leaves nowhere for silence to hide. Wind rattles the walls. Something loose bangs once, then again, metal on metal, the rhythm wrong and jarring.
The shed is smaller than it looked from the outside.
Hay bales stack close along one wall, the air thick with damp and dust and the warm, animal smell of the colt pressed between us. He breathes hard, nostrils flaring, every exhale loud in the tight space. I can feel it in my chest, like my own lungs are trying to match his.
I'm suddenly aware of everything.
Mud caked on my jeans. Rain-soaked shirt plastered to my skin, cold now that we've stopped moving. My hair dripping down my back. The burn in my arms from hauling the colt through the storm.
And the way my pulse is beating low and fast—not from the run anymore, but from how close Eli is standing now that we've stopped moving.
Heat pools low in my stomach, having nothing to do with the temperature in here.
Too close.
He hasn't said a word.
That's how I know something's different.
Eli is quiet when he's thinking, but this is something else.
This is restraint. His body is still, shoulders tight, like he's holding himself in place by force.
I don't look at him right away, but I don't need to.
I can feel him there. Solid. Familiar. A presence that fills the space whether I invite it or not.
Five minutes ago, we were moving. Solving. Reacting.
Now we're just… here.
The awareness settles in slow and heavy. This isn't accidental. This isn't the storm's fault. This is what happens when we stop pretending we don't feel it.
My hand tightens on the lead without me meaning to.
And then the memory hits.
The porch. The rough scrape of his stubble against my skin. The way his hands framed my face like he needed to anchor himself there. The kiss wasn't careful. It wasn't curious. It landed hard, like something he'd been holding back too long.
Like something he didn't trust himself with.
My mouth still remembers it. The pressure. The certainty. The way he pulled back just enough to breathe before saying the thing that's been sitting under my skin ever since.
I just needed to know that you're still there.
My throat tightens.
I don't know what scares me more—that he needed to know, or that the answer was yes without me having to think about it.
The colt shifts, bumping my hip lightly, grounding me back in the present. I murmur to him without looking away from the space in front of me, voice low and steady. It's easier to focus on him. On something that needs calm instead of clarity.
Eli shifts his weight beside me.
The smallest movement. Barely anything.
But my pulse jumps anyway.
The air feels charged now, different from the chaos outside. Thicker. Waiting. Like the moment right before something breaks, or changes, or can't be undone.
And we're both standing perfectly still, pretending we don't feel it.
The colt shifts again, hooves scuffing softly against the dirt floor. I keep my hand steady on the lead, rubbing a slow circle at his cheek until his breathing evens out.
"He's settling," I say. "That first panic spike burned off fast."
Eli nods once. "He does that."
Short. Controlled.
The rain keeps pounding the roof, a steady roar that turns the shed into its own small world. Wind rattles the door hard enough to make the hinges groan. I glance toward it, then back to the colt.
"We can't leave him in here all night," I say. "Once the worst of it passes, he should go back to his stall."
"Agreed."
Another nod. Still not looking at me.
I swallow and shift my stance, boots scraping hay. "If the temperature drops like this, he'll be tight tomorrow. We'll need to warm him up longer."
"We'll adjust," Eli says. "No shortcuts."
Of course.
"How long do you think the storm'll last?" I ask.
"Hour. Maybe two."
"And the pasture gate?"
"I'll check it once this lets up."
He glances at the roof instead of at me.
I nod, even though he can't see it. "If the wind keeps up, the west fence might need a walk-through too."
"I know."
Clipped. Efficient. Nothing wasted.
Silence fills the shed again, thick and heavy. The colt lowers his head, finally calm, and I rest my forehead briefly against his neck, breathing him in. Hay. Warmth. Familiar things.
I straighten and risk a look at Eli.
He's turned slightly away from me now, hands on his hips, gaze fixed on the far wall like it's offering answers. He won't look at me for more than a second at a time. When he does, it's quick. Careful. Like eye contact might knock something loose he can't afford to feel.
Five minutes ago, he was hauling a panicked horse through a storm without thinking twice.
Now he won't meet my eyes.
I know why.
This is the Eli who locks everything down because wanting more feels dangerous. The Eli who believes if he keeps moving, keeps planning, keeps his hands busy, the past won't catch up to him.
The Eli who learned, the hard way, what happens when he lets himself want something without guarantees.
I tighten my grip on the lead, grounding myself, and focus back on the colt. On the rain. On the work.
Anything but the memory pressing in from the edges. The morning light years ago. The quiet after. The way leaving felt like the only way to breathe and also like the worst thing I've ever done.
"We should remove his halter," I say, breaking the silence. "He's soaked through."
Eli nods. "Yeah. Good call."
It's the first thing he's said that sounds like agreement instead of control.
The storm rages on outside, rain pounding, wind screaming, time stretching thin. And we stand here, shoulder to shoulder without touching, talking about horses and weather and equipment like none of the rest of it exists.
Like this isn't avoidance.
Like we don't both know exactly what's sitting between us, waiting for one of us to stop pretending.
Eli reaches for the halter at the same time I do, our hands brushing for half a second before he pulls back like he's been burned.
"I've got it," he says.
The words are sharp. Unnecessary.
I still my hand but don't step away. "I wasn't taking it from you."
"I know," he says, already turning away, like that settles it.
Something tightens low in my chest.
"You don't have to shut me out every time we work together," I say. Calm. Measured. "I can handle a halter without everything turning into a standoff."
He stops moving.
Slowly, he turns back to face me.
"That's not what this is," he says.
"Then what is it?" I ask.
The colt shifts between us, sensing the change, and I step closer to his shoulder, narrowing the space without meaning to. Eli mirrors it automatically, muscle memory kicking in, both of us angling in like we always used to.
Too close now.
"Don't," he says quietly.
"Don't what?" I ask, lifting my chin. "Work?"
His jaw tightens. "Don't pretend you don't know."
I feel heat rise in my neck, not embarrassment. Anger. Old and familiar.
"I'm not pretending," I say. "I'm standing here."
"That's the problem," he snaps.
The words crack the air between us.
I blink. "Excuse me?"
"You show up," he says, voice low but tight, "like you never left. Like nothing changed. And you expect me to just—" He cuts himself off, dragging a hand through his wet hair. "You expect me to pretend this is fine."
"I never asked you to pretend," I shoot back.
"No," he says. "You just walked away and let me do it all for you."
The argument ignites all at once, like it's been waiting for oxygen.
"I didn't walk away from you," I say, the words sharp now, too fast to soften. "I walked away from everything."
"You walked away without saying a damn thing," he fires back. "One morning you were there, and the next—" He laughs once, humorless. "Nothing. No explanation. No call. No goodbye."
My chest tightens. "You didn't ask me to stay."
The words land hard.
His eyes flash. "Because I shouldn't have had to."
I take a step closer before I can stop myself. "You don't get to rewrite that. You never said it out loud. You never told me you wanted me to choose you."
My pulse roars in my ears. The shed feels smaller, the walls pressing in as the rain hammers harder overhead.
"You don't know what it felt like," I continue, voice rising despite myself. "To wake up every day and feel like the ground had dropped out from under me. To breathe and still feel like I was suffocating."
He steps closer too now, matching me, the space between us shrinking to inches. "I was there."
"No," I snap. "You were solid. You were rooted. You had direction. I had grief wrapped around my throat and no idea who I was without my dad."
His mouth opens, then closes.
I don't stop.
"Staying felt like choosing one life forever," I say, the words spilling now, sharp and shaking. "And I was twenty-two and drowning. Everything felt permanent and I was breaking. You felt like a cage because you were steady when I wasn't."
The second the word leaves my mouth, I regret it.
His face hardens. Something shutters behind his eyes, like I just confirmed every fear he's been carrying for five years.
"A cage," he repeats quietly. Flatly.
I swallow. "That's not—"
"That's exactly what you meant," he says. "You fucked me and left because staying felt like a trap."
There it is. After all these weeks, he’s finally said it. The big issue between us. The thing that broke us apart.
"That is not what happened."
"Then tell me what did," he demands, voice rising now, echoing off the metal walls. "Because from where I was standing, you took everything I had to give and disappeared."
My throat burns.
I remember the morning light through the window. The way his arm had been heavy and warm across my waist. The way panic had crawled up my spine the second I woke up and realized how much that moment meant.
How much it could cost me. How much it changed things.