Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
LEVI
Ishouldn’t let her come back.
That’s the first thought I have when I hear the barn door open again the next morning.
Second thought?
Too late.
I keep my back to her, hands steady on the buckle I’m tightening, like I didn’t notice. Like I don’t feel the shift in the air the second she steps inside.
It’s different with her here.
Brighter. Louder without sound. Goddamned distracting.
“You’re early,” I say, peonies and jasmine filling the air. It puts a hint of warmth behind my sternum. I clench my jaw, trying to ignore it…. and her.
“I thought you said same time.” I glance at the clock nailed crooked above the tack wall. She’s five minutes early.
Her throat works, mouth coming open. But I don’t need to hear her silky voice.
“Close enough,” I mutter before she can speak.
I finish the strap and turn.
She’s dressed for it today. Boots, jeans, her auburn hair pulled back in something that won’t get in her way. Still too clean. Still too soft for this place.
But she tried.
Whatever that means.
Buddy shifts in his stall when I approach. Wouldn’t class him calm. Not yet. But he doesn’t slam himself into the boards this time either.
Progress.
“Come here,” I tell her.
She does. Without hesitation.
“Same as yesterday,” I say. “Slow. Let him see you.”
She steps in beside me, close enough I feel the heat of her through the thin space between us. Close enough that if I moved my arm an inch, I’d brush her.
I don’t move.
She lifts the brush and starts, steady, patient.
The horse watches her. Then—after a second—lets her.
I exhale quietly. “Good.”
She glances up at me, quick, like she wasn’t expecting the praise. Blue-green sparkles, the sapphire in her gaze.
It hits me harder than it should. That look. Like it matters.
I clear my throat and shift my focus back to the horse. “Keep your hand low,” I add. “He’ll spook if you come in too high.”
She adjusts without question. Learns fast. Too fast.
“You said you haven’t done this before,” I say.
“I haven’t.”
“Then how’d you know not to push him?”
She shrugs. “I know what it feels like to be cornered.”
That stops me. I don’t look at her right away. Don’t ask. But something in my chest tightens anyway.
The kind of answer you don’t get from someone who’s had it easy. Maybe I shouldn’t let her fancy clothes and sweet perfume do all the talking for her.
The horse flicks an ear, leaning slightly into the brush. Trust, in small pieces. That’s how it always comes.
“People don’t usually stay,” I say before I can stop myself.
She stills for half a second. “Here?”
“Anywhere.”
It comes out rougher than I mean it to. Too close to something I don’t talk about. Raised a foster kid. Too many people in and out of my life to count.
Stopped counting on others at all… after a point.
I reach for the lead rope, adjusting it just to have something to do with my hands.
“Animals are simpler,” I add. “They either trust you or they don’t.”
“And people?”
I let out a breath through my nose. “They make you think they do.”
Silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
I feel her looking at me. I don’t return it. Can’t. Not without giving something away.
The horse shifts again, calmer now. Head lower. Muscles less tight. I step closer to check the halter. She doesn’t move.
So now we’re standing there, too close, both pretending we don’t notice. Her shoulder brushes mine.
An accident. Probably. Only it doesn’t feel like one.
My hand stills on the strap.
There’s a second—one sharp, suspended second—where I’m aware of everything.
The warmth of her. The quiet in the barn. The way my body reacts before my head can shut it down.
I step back. Too fast.
“That’s enough,” I say.
Her hand drops, brush lowering to her side.
“That’s it?”
“For today.”
Her brow furrows slightly. “We just got started.”
“That’s how you keep from pushing too far.”
Her gaze holds mine. “You’re not talking about the horse.”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to. She already knows.
That’s the problem.
I turn away, grabbing a rag off the hook, wiping my hands even though they’re not dirty.
“You said you wanted to learn,” I say. “That’s lesson one.”
She steps closer again. Deliberate.
“And lesson two?” she asks.
My grip tightens on the rag. “Don’t get attached to something that isn’t going to last.”
There it is. Closer to the surface than I meant to let it get.
She studies me. Really studies me.
Not like she’s trying to figure me out. Like she already sees more than I’m willing to show.
“That sounds like a rule,” she says quietly.
“It is.”
“For you?”
“For everyone.”
She shakes her head once. “No.”
I look at her then. I shouldn’t. But I do anyway.
“No?” I repeat.
“No,” she says. “That’s just the one you chose.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. Sharp enough to notice. Not enough to name. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“Then tell me.”
Her voice doesn’t push or demand. It invites.
I don’t know what to do with that. I take a step toward her before I realize it. Close enough now that there’s no pretending. Close enough that if I reach out…
Stop it, Levi.
“Go back to the house, Dakota,” I say, lower now. Rougher. “Not worth the trouble.
“You or the horse?” She doesn’t move.
My eyes narrow. “Some things you can’t rescue.”
“Why?” she asks.
Because I want something I won’t take. Because I’ve already let this go further than it should.
Because the way you look at me makes me forget the rules I built to keep everything from falling apart.
I don’t say any of that.
“Because I said so.”
Her lips press together. She doesn’t look angry or hurt. If anything, she’s too damn perceptive, as if she’s drilling into me. Deep.
Until I realize she’s just… thinking. This isn’t about her or me at all.
Dakota nods once. “Okay.”
Too easy. That should feel like a win. But it doesn’t.
She sets the brush down, turns, and walks toward the door. Sunlight spills in as she opens it, catching in her hair again. She pauses with one hand on the frame.
“Levi?”
I don’t answer right away.
“Yeah.”
“You’re wrong about one thing.”
I wait. She looks back at me.
“You don’t fix things by keeping your distance.”
Then she steps outside. And the barn feels quieter without her.
Too quiet.
I stand there longer than I should, staring at the empty doorway. The horse shifts beside me, nudging my shoulder like he’s looking for something that isn’t there anymore.
“Yeah,” I mutter. I get it. I reach up, resting my hand against his neck—solid and grounded.
Safe.
The way things are supposed to be.
But for the first time in a long while, it doesn’t feel like enough.