12. Quinn
Quinn
Iwake up before him.
That’s intentional.
It always is.
For a second, I don’t move.
Don’t open my eyes.
Don’t acknowledge where I am.
Because I already know.
The warmth at my back.
The weight of his arm draped low across my waist.
The slow, steady rhythm of his breathing.
Logan.
Not a mistake.
Not a miscalculation.
A decision.
That’s the problem.
I open my eyes.
The room looks different in the morning.
Softer somehow. Less charged. The edges of everything less sharp.
It should feel easier.
It doesn’t.
His hand shifts slightly against me—instinct, not conscious—and my body reacts before my mind catches up.
A quiet inhale.
A tightening I don’t allow.
Control.
I ease forward carefully, slipping out from under his arm without waking him. Or at least—
without letting him know I know he’s awake.
Because he is.
I can feel it.
The change in his breathing.
The awareness he doesn’t bother hiding.
But he doesn’t stop me.
Doesn’t pull me back.
That’s deliberate.
I stand, crossing the room barefoot, collecting pieces of myself along the way—clothes, composure, distance.
By the time I reach the window again, I’m dressed.
Centered.
Externally intact.
That’s what matters.
Outside, the ranch is already moving.
Early.
Efficient.
Uncomplicated.
Men working. Horses shifting. Gates opening and closing in a rhythm that doesn’t require discussion.
It just happens.
I watch it like I did yesterday—
but it feels different now.
Less observational.
More… connected.
I don’t like that.
“Running already?”
His voice is rough with sleep, low and steady behind me.
I don’t turn right away.
“I prefer to start the day before it starts me.”
A quiet huff of amusement.
“Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”
I turn then.
He’s sitting up in bed now, one arm braced behind him, watching me in a way that’s far too aware for someone who just woke up.
No tension.
No hesitation.
Just certainty.
That’s new.
“You didn’t sleep much,” he says.
“I slept enough.”
His gaze moves over me—taking in the fact that I’m dressed, composed, already put back together.
Rebuilding distance.
“You always reset this fast?” he asks.
“Yes.”
No apology.
No explanation.
He studies me for a second longer, then swings his legs off the bed, standing without rushing, without breaking eye contact.
“That doesn’t change what happened,” he says.
I meet his gaze.
“It doesn’t need to.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Of course it isn’t.
I cross my arms loosely, grounding myself in something structured, something controlled.
“We had an agreement,” I say. “This doesn’t alter it.”
His mouth curves slightly. “You sure about that?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate.
Too immediate.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Right,” he mutters, stepping closer. “Because you’re still in control.”
“Yes.”
“Even now?”
“Yes.”
The word holds.
Barely.
His gaze sharpens—not confrontational, just… knowing.
“You keep saying that,” he says quietly. “Like it makes it true.”
“It does.”
“Does it?”
The question lingers between us—not loud, not aggressive—just present.
I don’t answer it.
Because I don’t need to.
Because I can’t.
Instead, I shift focus.
Back to what matters.
“My brother is watching,” I say. “Whatever this is—it’s already part of his next move.”
That redirects him.
Not completely.
But enough.
“Yeah,” Logan says. “I figured.”
“So we don’t deviate,” I continue. “We stick to the narrative. We stay ahead of whatever he’s planning.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“Always back to strategy,” he says.
“Yes.”
“That’s all this is to you?”
I hold his gaze.
“It’s what matters.”
Silence stretches.
He steps closer again—closer than necessary, closer than neutral—and I feel it immediately.
The difference.
The weight of last night still there, still influencing the space between us.
“You didn’t look like you were thinking about strategy last night,” he says quietly.
I don’t step back.
That’s intentional.
“That doesn’t change the objective,” I reply.
“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t.”
But he doesn’t move away either.
That’s the problem.
Because now—
this isn’t just tension.
It’s memory.
It’s awareness.
It’s something I haven’t fully separated yet.
“You’re different this morning,” he says.
I raise a brow. “Am I?”
“Yeah.”
“How?”
He studies me.
“Colder,” he says. “More distant.”
“That’s efficient.”
“That’s defensive.”
The word hits Quinn than it should.
I don’t react.
Externally.
Internally—
it shifts something I don’t like.
“I’m focused,” I correct.
“You’re pulling back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Because if I don’t—
this becomes something else.
Because I didn’t plan for this part.
Because I didn’t expect to want it.
I don’t say any of that.
“I don’t mix variables,” I say instead.
His mouth curves again.
Not amused.
Not entirely.
“Too late for that.”
The words settle into the space between us.
Uncomfortable.
Accurate.
I turn back toward the window.
Putting distance between us without physically stepping away.
That’s control.
That’s what I know.
Behind me, I hear him move—boots on the floor, the quiet shift of someone who isn’t finished with this conversation.
“Quinn.”
My name again.
Different this time.
Less controlled.
More… something else.
I don’t turn.
“Yes?”
A pause.
Then—
“This isn’t going to stay clean,” he says.
I know that.
I knew it the second I didn’t stop him.
The second I didn’t walk away.
“It doesn’t need to be clean,” I say. “It needs to work.”
Silence again.
Then—
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s the part you keep telling yourself.”
I don’t respond.
Because that—
that’s the part I don’t want to examine too closely.
Because if I do—
I might not like what I find.