10. Luke
LUKE
I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling of my cabin, and all I can think is that I fucked up.
The darkness presses in around me, broken only by moonlight filtering through the curtains.
The creek rushes outside like it always does—constant, unchanging background noise that usually helps me sleep.
Tonight it just reminds me how everything else has shifted while the world keeps spinning on like nothing happened.
I had sex with Mila on the office couch.
The thought loops through my head on repeat, accompanied by flashes of memory I can't shut off. Her hands fisted in my shirt. The sound she made when I touched her. The way she looked at me after, like maybe this meant something beyond just physical release.
That's the part that's killing me.
Because it did mean something. At least to me. And I'm terrified it didn't mean the same thing to her.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. My chest feels tight. Wrong. Like I've taken something I had no right to take and now I'm going to have to watch it all fall apart.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn't. That's the problem. I spent weeks—months, really—convincing myself I could handle having Mila around without letting myself want more. Telling myself she was temporary. That getting attached would only lead to the inevitable pain of watching her leave.
And then today I just... gave in. Stopped fighting it. Let myself take what I wanted without thinking about the consequences.
The memory of her in my lap makes my body respond even now, hours later. The way she moved. The desperate sounds she made. How she said my name like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I roll onto my side, pulling the blanket up to my chin even though the cabin's plenty warm.
We got dressed after. Quietly. Neither of us quite meeting the other's eyes.
I didn't know what to say—couldn't find words that would make sense of what just happened.
So I just walked her out to her car because that felt like the only thing I knew how to do.
I kissed her because not kissing her seemed impossible.
Watched her drive away with taillights disappearing into the darkness.
And then I came back here and I haven't been able to think about anything else.
My phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. Part of me wants to text her. Ask if she's okay. If we're okay. But I don't know what to say that won't sound desperate or presumptuous or like I'm asking for reassurance she might not be willing to give.
What if she regrets it?
The thought makes my stomach twist. What if she wakes up tomorrow and realizes sleeping with me was a mistake? That I'm just the steady guy who runs the ranch office—not someone worth risking anything for. Not someone worth staying for.
Because that's what I want, isn't it? For her to stay.
I've been lying to myself, pretending I could keep this casual. That I could enjoy her company without wanting more. But the truth is I want everything. I want her here permanently. Want to come home to her every night. Want to stop wondering when she's finally going to leave and just... have her.
And that's selfish as hell.
She came to our small town to escape. To figure herself out after Helena and that asshole and losing the life she thought she'd have.
She didn't come here to get tangled up with me and all the responsibility I carry.
Didn't sign up to be the reason I finally want something for myself instead of just taking care of everyone else.
I think about Sadie and my chest tightens further.
Fuck.
Sadie's going to feel betrayed. She brought Mila here to help with administrative work—to give me support so I wouldn't drown under the weight of running this place. She trusted me with her best friend. And I turned around and slept with her.
What kind of person does that?
The rational part of my brain knows Sadie's not unreasonable.
She's not going to throw a fit just because two adults made a choice.
But the rest of me—the part that's spent thirty-four years being the reliable one, the one who doesn't cause problems—can't shake the feeling that I've crossed a line I shouldn't have.
I've been the person everyone can count on since I was fourteen years old.
Since Mom died and Dad turned into a ghost and Dean ran off to chase buckles instead of staying to help.
I kept the ranch running. Kept Dean grounded when he came home.
Made sure guests had everything they needed while Dad mourned and rebuilt himself slowly over the years.
I don't ask for things. I don't want things. I just... handle what needs handling.
Except now I want Mila and I don't know how to reconcile that with who I've always been.
The ceiling beams stretch above me, familiar shadows I've stared at a thousand nights. This cabin's been mine since I turned eighteen and Dad offered to build it for me. A space of my own after years of shouldering adult responsibilities as a kid. Somewhere I could breathe.
But lately it's felt less like sanctuary and more like isolation.
Because Mila's not here.
And I want her to be. I want her things scattered around my space. Want to hear her rambling about work drama or graphic design nightmares while I make dinner. Want to fall asleep with her in my bed instead of lying here alone spiraling through worst-case scenarios.
But wanting something doesn't make it right to take it.
She's still figuring her life out. Still healing from whatever happened in Helena that she doesn't talk about. Still insisting—to herself as much as anyone—that this is temporary. That she's leaving eventually.
What if I just made that harder for her?
What if she felt like she had to sleep with me because I've been helping her? Because she's grateful and confused that with something else? What if I've put her in an impossible position where she feels obligated to?—
I force myself to stop.
That's not fair to her. Mila's not some delicate thing who can't make her own choices. She wanted this as much as I did. I saw it in her eyes. Felt it in the way she kissed me. Heard it in her voice when she said please.
She wanted me.
The problem is I still don't know if wanting me in that moment translates to wanting me beyond it.
I roll onto my back again, throwing an arm across my eyes.
The smart thing would be to talk to her. Have an actual conversation about what this means and what we both want. Figure out if we're on the same page before this gets more complicated.
But I'm terrified of what she'll say.
Terrified she'll tell me it was just physical. Just something that happened in the moment that doesn't need to mean anything. That we should probably keep it professional going forward because she's still planning to leave and getting involved would just complicate things.
And if she says that, I'll have to agree with her. Because I'm not the kind of person who pushes. Who demands. Who asks for more than someone's willing to give.
I'm the person who steps back. Who makes space. Who lets people have what they need even if it means I don't get what I want.
The thought makes my chest physically hurt.
I've been so careful my entire adult life. Careful not to ask for too much. Careful not to burden anyone with my needs. Careful to be exactly who everyone expects me to be—steady, reliable, uncomplicated.
And in one afternoon I threw all of that away because I couldn't stop myself from wanting her.
The worst part is I don't actually regret it.
I should. I should regret the complication and the risk and the way everything's going to be different now. But when I think about having her in my lap, looking at me like I was exactly what she needed, I can't make myself regret it.
I just wish I knew what happens next.
Sleep doesn't come easy. I drift in and out, catching fragments of rest between spiraling thoughts. When my alarm finally goes off at five-thirty, I feel like I've been hit by a truck.
I go through my morning routine on autopilot. Shower. Coffee. Pull on jeans and a flannel that's probably been worn one too many times without washing. Boots. Jacket. Keys.
The drive to the main ranch feels longer than usual.
Dawn's just starting to break, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that would normally make me stop and appreciate the view. Today I barely notice. My hands are tight on the steering wheel and my stomach's in knots and all I can think is that I have no idea what to say when I see Mila.
If I see Mila.
Maybe she won't come in today. Maybe she'll text saying she's taking the day off and then slowly start pulling away until eventually she stops showing up altogether. Stops pretending this was ever permanent.
The thought makes my chest ache.
I park outside the office building, killing the engine but not immediately getting out. The windows are dark. I'm usually first here, spending the quiet morning hours catching up on paperwork before the day gets chaotic.
Today I can't make myself move.
What if I made the biggest mistake of my life yesterday?
What if I just destroyed the best thing that's happened to me in years because I couldn't keep my feelings in check?
I force myself out of the truck. The cold morning air bites at my face and I pull my jacket tighter, heading toward the office door with my key already out.
Except the lights are on.
I stop. Stare at the warm glow spilling through the windows.
Someone's already here.
My heart kicks against my ribs as I push the door open.
Mila's at her desk.
She looks up when I enter and the expression on her face makes something in my chest simultaneously ease and tighten. There's nervousness there. Uncertainty. But also something softer. Warmer.
She gives me this small, almost shy smile.
"Hey," she says quietly. "I brought coffee."
I can't look at her.
The realization hits me hard. I should be relieved she's here. Should be grateful she came back. Should say something—anything—to acknowledge what happened and figure out where we stand.
But all I can think is that I've fucked this up irreparably and if I look at her too long, she'll see exactly how much I want things I have no right to ask for.
"Thanks," I manage, moving toward my desk without meeting her eyes.
I hear the rustle of movement. Feel her gaze tracking me across the office. The silence stretches and I know I'm making this worse. Know I'm confirming whatever fears she might be having by not addressing what happened.
But I don't know what to say that won't sound desperate.
I sink into my chair, firing up my computer like the guest confirmations and vendor contracts waiting for me are the most important things in the world. Like I can hide behind work the way I always have.
Except this time it feels different.
This time it feels like running.