Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Eli
Ididn't sleep.
Couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that shed. Her back against the hay. Her jeans unbuttoned. My hand on her skin. The sound she made when I touched her.
The way Chace's voice cut through everything.
Thirty more seconds and I would've buried myself in her.
Fuck.
I drain the cup of coffee I'm drinking, black and bitter, boots already on, and head out into the cold.
The ranch is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses in from all sides and makes every thought louder than it should be. Storm damage litters the yard—broken branches, a loose tarp flapping against the equipment shed, mud everywhere. Work that needs doing.
Good.
I grab a rake and start clearing debris, movements sharp and automatic. Muscle memory takes over. Lift. Toss. Repeat. My shoulders burn after the first hour. I don't stop.
Work is the only thing that helps. The only thing that keeps my hands from shaking.
By the time the sun breaks the horizon, I've cleared half the yard. Sweat cools against my back despite the chill. My hands ache. It's not enough.
Nothing is.
Boots crunch on gravel behind me.
I don't turn. I already know who it is.
"Good morning," Hazel says.
Two words. Casual. Like we almost didn't— I grab another branch. "Morning."
She steps closer.
"We need to work the colt," she says. "Fall Classic is four weeks out."
I nod once. Still don't look at her.
"I'll meet you at the pen in ten."
She hesitates. I hear it in the pause, the way her weight shifts on the gravel. Then her footsteps retreat, steady and deliberate, leaving me alone with the mess I'm supposed to be cleaning up.
I exhale slow through my nose and toss the rake aside.
This is going to be a long fucking day.
The colt is wound tight when I get to the pen.
He paces the fence line, head high, ears flicking at every sound. Storm nerves. He remembers yesterday. The chaos. The fear.
I step inside slow, keeping my movements calm, predictable. He watches me but doesn't bolt.
"Easy," I murmur. "We're good today."
Hazel arrives a minute later, lead rope coiled over her shoulder. She doesn't say anything. Just slips through the gate and takes up position on the opposite side of the pen.
The morning sun catches her hair. Her shirt is clean, fitted. She looks like she slept.
I hate her for it.
"Let's start with groundwork," she says, voice steady. Professional.
I nod and clip the lead to the colt's halter.
We've done this a hundred times. Worked horses together since we were teenagers. We know how to move around each other. When to step in. When to give space. When to let the other person lead.
It should be muscle memory.
It's not.
The colt settles after a few minutes, enough that I can start working him through basic movements. Walk. Stop. Back. Turn. Hazel mirrors me on the other side, hands steady, voice low and calm.
But I'm too aware of her.
The way she shifts her weight when the colt moves. The way her hands stay loose on the rope even when he tosses his head. The way she tilts her head slightly, reading his body language.
I force my focus back to the horse.
"He's favoring his left front," Hazel says, stepping closer to examine his gait.
I move in from the other side. We're both crouched low now, watching his feet, close enough that I can smell her—soap and something sweet and the faint trace of hay.
Too close.
She leans in further. Her shoulder brushes mine.
The touch is brief. Accidental.
Heat spikes through me anyway.
I stand up fast. "I'll keep an eye on it."
She straightens too, and I catch the way her breath hitches.
She felt it too.
We keep working. The colt moves between us, responding to our cues, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.
Hazel reaches across to adjust the halter, and her hand brushes mine on the lead.
This time it's not accidental.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb. She inhales sharp.
I force myself to let go.
"Sorry," I mutter.
"It's fine."
It's not fine.
We circle the pen, working the colt through turns and stops. Every movement requires us to coordinate, to read each other, to move in sync. It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with touch.
And it's killing me.
Hazel steps in to guide the colt's shoulder, and I move to his hip at the same time. We're sandwiching him now, bodies angled in, working together to shift his weight and balance.
It requires proximity. Trust. Timing.
Her hand lands on his ribcage. Mine lands just below hers.
We're inches apart. Close enough that I can feel the heat of her body. Close enough that when she shifts her weight, her hip brushes my thigh.
The colt settles between us, calm now, trusting.
We don't move.
We should. The exercise is done. But neither of us steps back.
Hazel's breathing has changed. Faster. Shallower. I watch the pulse jump at her throat.
"Eli," she says quietly.
It's not a question. It's not a plea. Just my name, said in a way that makes my chest tighten and my hands ache to reach for her.
I take a step back instead.
The loss of contact feels wrong. Immediate.
"We should run him through it again," I say, voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She nods once, not looking at me. "Yeah."
We reset. Work the colt through the same exercise. Then again.
Each time, we end up too close. Each time, the air gets thicker. Each time, it takes more effort to step back.
By the fourth run-through, sweat dampens my shirt despite the cool morning. My hands shake slightly when I adjust the lead. Not from exertion.
From restraint.
Hazel reaches for the clasp on the halter at the same time I do. Our fingers tangle. This time, neither of us pretends it's an accident.
Her eyes meet mine.
Dark. Wanting. Uncertain.
My hand shifts, fingers threading through hers for half a second.
Her breath catches.
"You're both killing me."
Chace's voice cuts across the pen, loud and unapologetic.
We jerk apart like we've been caught doing something worse than just standing too close.
I turn toward the fence.
Chace is leaning against the rail with Addie and Shae, all three of them watching us like this is entertainment. Addie looks uncomfortable. Shae's expression is carefully neutral.
Chace just grins.
"What?" I snap.
He spreads his hands. "I'm just saying. The sexual tension is so thick out here I can barely breathe. You're making the horse nervous."
Addie elbows him. "Chace—"
"It's true!" He gestures between me and Hazel. "Look at them. They look like they're about to either kill each other or—"
"Chace," Addie warns.
He ignores her, still grinning at us. "Jesus Christ, will you two just fuck already and put us all out of our misery?"
The words land like a bomb.
Silence drops hard and immediate.
Addie closes her eyes. "Oh my god."
Shae just watches, expression unreadable.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck. Not embarrassment. Something sharper. Angrier.
I can feel Hazel standing frozen beside me. Can feel the weight of her stare even though I won't look at her.
The colt shifts nervously between us, picking up on the tension.
"Are you done?" I ask Chace, voice flat.
His grin doesn't falter. "I mean, clearly you're not, which is kind of the whole problem—"
"Chace," Addie hisses. "Shut up."
He raises his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. I'm just calling it like I see it."
I hand the lead rope to Hazel without a word. Without looking at her.
"I'm done," I say.
Then I walk.
Past the fence. Past Chace with his stupid grin. Past Addie's apologetic expression. Past all of them.
I hear Hazel call my name.
I don't stop.
I can't.
If I turn around now, if I look at her, I won't be able to hold the line I'm barely holding.
I make it to the barn before my hands start shaking.
Not from cold. Not from exhaustion.
From wanting something I can't keep chasing.
I brace my palms against the workbench, head down, breathing slow and controlled like that might settle the chaos under my ribs.
It doesn't work.
I can't keep doing this.
Can't keep standing next to her and pretending I don't want to pull her close. Can't keep working beside her like my body doesn't remember exactly how she felt under my hands. Can't survive another almost.
Another interruption.
Another moment where she looks at me like she wants this but won't say it out loud.
I shove off the bench and pace the length of the barn once, then again, boots thudding against the concrete.
I've loved her my whole life.
That's the problem.
Not that I want her. Not that I need her. But that I've always known exactly what it feels like to have her and lose her, and I'm not strong enough to do it again.
She has to choose.
Not me chasing. Not me reaching. Not me standing in a shed with my hands on her body while she gasps my name and then walks away the second someone interrupts.
She has to come to me.
Or let me go.
The barn is quiet except for the sound of my breathing and the distant shuffle of horses in their stalls.
I wait for footsteps behind me.
For her to follow.
For her to say something—anything—that tells me this isn't just me wanting her in pieces.
The minutes stretch.
No one comes.
The realization settles cold and certain.
She's not coming.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
I grab my keys off the workbench and head for my truck, jaw tight, every step deliberate.
I need space. Distance. Anything but standing here waiting for something that isn't going to happen.
The sun sets slow and red by the time I make it back to Dawson Ranch.
My place is quiet. Empty. Exactly what I don't need right now.
I stand on the porch, keys in hand, staring at the door like crossing the threshold will somehow fix the knot in my chest.
It won't.
But I go inside anyway. Drop my keys. Stand in the kitchen with my hands braced on the counter, breathing like I've run miles instead of driven them.
My resolve is holding.
Barely.
I won't go to her. I won't knock on her door. I won't drive back to Clark Ranch and stand outside her window like some lovesick fool hoping she'll look at me the way she did five years ago.
She has to choose.
But standing here, alone in the dark, knowing she's just miles away across the property line, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold this line.
Because if she comes to me now—if she shows up at my door and says she wants this, even without promises, even without guarantees—I'll break.
I'll take whatever she gives me.
Even knowing it won't be enough.
Even knowing "right now" isn't the same as forever.
Even knowing I'll wake up one day and she'll be gone again, and this time I won't survive it.
I'll take it anyway.
Even if it's temporary. Even if it destroys me later.
And I hate myself for it.
But I can't stop wanting her.
I never could.
And if she walks through that door tonight, I'll give her everything.
Even knowing she'll take it with her when she leaves.