Chapter 33
Chapter thirty-three
Hazel
The door opens.
Eli's there, filling the frame, and for a second we just look at each other.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey." My voice comes out steadier than I expected.
He steps back to let me in, and I walk past him into the cabin. The smell hits me immediately—coffee and sawdust and something warm I can't name. Home-adjacent.
He closes the door behind us, and the click of the latch feels final.
I turn to face him. "Can we talk?"
Something shifts in his expression. Not surprise. More like resignation. Like he already knows this conversation isn't going to be easy.
"Yeah," he says. "Of course."
He leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely, waiting.
And I realize I still don't know how to say this.
"I got a call from work," I start. "About a job offer."
His expression doesn't change. No flinch. No tightening. Just attention.
"Okay," he says.
"They're pushing harder about returning," I continue, keeping my voice even. "There's an offer on the table. A promotion. Better pay. More responsibility. The kind of thing you don't usually get offered twice."
I hate the way it sounds when I say it out loud. Bigger. Heavier. More real.
He takes a slow breath, eyes on me. Waiting.
"I wanted to tell you because I didn't want it to feel like I was hiding anything." That's true. Mostly. "This isn't me saying I'm going. It's just—information. Something I have to think through."
"When do they need to know?" he asks.
My stomach twists. "Thursday."
He nods once. The silence stretches.
"I haven't decided yet," I say. The words come out softer than I expect. Careful.
He looks at me for a long second, his face going still in a way I don't recognize right away.
Not angry. Not hurt.
Closed.
"You're leaving," he says.
It's not a question.
It lands between us like something already decided, and for a split second I just stare at him, trying to figure out how we got there so fast.
"That's not what I said." I keep my voice steady, even when my chest tightens. "I said I haven't decided."
He doesn't move. Not closer. Not away. Just still. Arms folded now, weight shifted back onto his heels, like he's bracing for something he already sees coming.
"You're still deciding," he says quietly. "That tells me everything I need to know."
My stomach drops.
I shake my head. "I'm here. Standing right in front of you. I've been here. The ranch is working. We're working."
He doesn't argue. Doesn't move. Just looks at me like the conclusion's already drawn.
"I'm not doing this," he says.
"Doing what?"
"Negotiating my own ending."
The words hit like a slap.
"That's not—" I step toward him. "You're making it sound like I'm already gone."
"Aren't you?" He shifts his weight back. Creating space. "You're standing here telling me you haven't decided. That's the same thing."
"No, it's not. I just need—"
"Time." His jaw tightens. "I know."
"What's wrong with that?" My voice climbs despite myself. "I'm allowed to think things through."
"Think about what?" He's not yelling. But something sharp edges into his tone. "Whether I'm worth it?"
"That's not what this is."
"Then what is it?"
"It's about not making a mistake!" The words tumble out too fast. "About not waking up in five years regretting giving up everything I worked for because I was scared or—"
"Or scared of being in love with me?"
I freeze.
He exhales slowly, and when he speaks again his voice is quieter. Harder. "That's what you're afraid of. That choosing me means choosing wrong."
"No. You're twisting—"
"No, I'm listening. Loud and clear, Hazel."
"You're not!" Frustration claws up my throat. "You're acting like I've already chosen against you."
"You haven't chosen." He crosses his arms. "That's the problem."
"I'm not ready yet," I say, and I hate how my voice cracks on the word. "Why can't that be enough for now?"
Something flickers through his expression.
"Because 'for now' is how you left last time."
The room goes still.
My chest tightens. "This isn't the same."
"Isn't it?"
"Mae's fine now. The ranch is stable. You've got Chace, you've got work—you'll be fine."
His expression shifts. Goes cold.
"And we could still see each other," I add quickly, desperately. "Denver's only a few hours away. I could come back on weekends—"
"No."
The word cuts clean through.
"People do long distance—"
"I won't be someone you visit on weekends." His voice stays level but there's steel in it now. "I won't be the thing you keep in Montana while you build your real life somewhere else."
"That's not—"
"You're either here or you're not." He holds my gaze. "There's no in-between."
Panic crawls up my spine. "So this is an ultimatum?"
"It's a boundary."
"It's the same thing!"
"No." He's not yelling. But the word lands hard. "It's me telling you what I can survive. And weekends aren't it."
My hands shake. I press them against my thighs.
"You said you'd take whatever I could give," I say, hearing the desperation now. “You said that."
Pain flickers across his face. Brief. Gone.
"I was wrong." He meets my eyes. "I thought I could. I can't."
Silence stretches.
The words are right there. I'll stay. I'm choosing you.
But they won't come.
"I just—" My voice sounds small. "I need a little more time."
Something in him breaks.
"You think I'll be fine." Not a question. An accusation. "You keep talking like the worst thing that happens is things being hard for a while."
"What else—"
"I'll never be fine without you." His voice goes rough. Raw. "I wasn't fine the first time. I learned how to pretend." He drags a hand through his hair and I see it shake. "There's a difference."
A tear escapes before I can stop it.
"When you came back," he continues, " For awhile I thought—" He stops. Starts again. "It felt like everything made sense. Like I hadn't been stupid to hope." His voice cracks. "Losing you once almost broke me. Watching you decide to leave again?" He shakes his head. "That's worse."
The words land like physical blows.
My throat closes. Tears burn hot behind my eyes and I can't stop them anymore. One escapes, then another, tracking down my cheeks.
"I’m sorry," I whisper.
It's all I have left. The only truth that matters and it changes nothing.
"I know."
The gentleness in those two words makes it worse somehow. Like he's already letting me go.
I see it now—too late, always too late—how every careful word has been a knife. How "I haven't decided" translates to "you're not enough." How asking for time means I'm already halfway gone.
I thought I was protecting us both.
I was just breaking him slowly instead of all at once.
"I'm not trying to hurt you," I say, but my voice cracks on the words.
"I know," he says again.
The silence that follows feels final.
Then he takes a breath, and I know—I know—what's coming before he says it.
"I won't do this again, Hazel."
Not angry. Not pleading. Just absolutely certain.
"I survived you leaving once. I'm not doing it twice."
It's not a plea for me to stay.
It's him protecting himself from me.
The room tilts. My chest feels too tight, like I can't get enough air. I want to say something—anything—that will undo this. That will rewind five minutes and let me walk in here with a different answer.
But I don't have a different answer.
I stand there, waiting. For him to soften. To reach for me. To ask me to stay even though we both know I can't promise I will.
He doesn't.
His expression is closed now. Guarded. The same way it was when I first came back and he didn't trust me yet.
I did this. I put those walls back up.
So I turn toward the door.
My legs don't feel steady. Each step away from him is harder than the last, like I'm walking through water. Or maybe quicksand. Something that's pulling me under.
My hand finds the door handle and I stop.
I don't know what I'm waiting for. Some last word. Some sign that this isn't really happening.
"This wasn't how I wanted it to go," I manage without turning around.
My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Neither did I, Hazel," he says.
I open the door. The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, and I suck in a breath that doesn't quite fill my lungs.
I don't look back.
I can't.
Because if I see his face right now—if I see what I'm doing to him—I'll break completely. And I need to make it to my truck first.
The gravel crunches under my boots. Each step echoing too loud in the quiet.
I climb in. Pull the door shut. The click of the latch sounds final.
My hands shake so hard I can barely get the key in the ignition.
The engine turns over, too loud, and I force myself to put the truck in reverse. To back out of his driveway. To leave.
I make it to the end of his road before the tears come for real.
Then I can't see anything through them.
I pull over onto the shoulder and just sit there, gripping the steering wheel, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest.
I just lost the only thing that made staying feel possible.
No—that's not true.
I didn't lose it.
I walked away from it.
Because even now, even sitting here shaking and crying and feeling like my chest is caving in, I still can't say the words he needs to hear.
I'll stay. I choose you. I'm not leaving.
The words are right there.
And I still can't promise them.
What does that make me?
I don't know.
I just know I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but sit here in the dark and feel everything I just broke.