▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance
There's a kind of wild you can't outrun.
Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
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"Hey," I called, keeping my voice steady, even though my heart beat harder than it should. "Sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to ask you something."
There was a pause, long enough to make me wonder if I was crossing a line I couldn't take back. Then Colt's voice came, low and sure, like he knew I'd be standing there. "Come in."
The loft had shifted in ways that were subtle, almost invisible unless you knew what to look for. Colt's boots were lined up by the door, their worn leather catching the last bit of fading light, casting long shadows on the floor. The smell of leather mixed with the earthy scent of the barn, making it his. Above the bed—Mama's old patchwork quilt still draped over it—hung his cowboy hat, its brim bent from years of sun and miles of road. It looked like it had always been there, as if the room had been waiting for him to step into it, to settle in without asking.
The rest of the loft was just as spare. A small dresser stood against one wall, a few shirts and jeans spilling from its half-open drawers, left in that easy way that men like him seemed to do, unbothered by the mess. The kitchenette was equally bare—a couple of chipped mugs, a jar of instant coffee, and a weathered coffee pot sitting on the counter, like it had seen better days but kept going out of pure stubbornness. Everything about the space felt quiet, functional, like it was made to serve a purpose and nothing more. But the simplicity of it suited him, a man who didn't seem to need much.
Then I noticed the bookshelf, tucked into the far corner. It was unexpected, that small stack of worn paperbacks, their spines creased and leaning against one another. The sight of them stirred something in me—a curiosity I hadn't expected. What did a man like Colt, who seemed so rooted in the here and now, find in the pages of those stories? What did he turn to when the weight of the world felt too heavy?
The air felt thicker in the small space, charged in a way that wasn't entirely uncomfortable but wasn't easy, either. My gaze drifted back to Colt. He stood by the sink, towel draped over his shoulder, his back turned as he dried his hair. The muscles in his back rippled with the movement, his skin still damp from the shower. I felt my face flush, heat creeping up my neck, and I suddenly felt out of place, standing there in the doorway, alone in a room with a half-naked man.
"Hey," I managed, my voice sounding quieter than I meant. "I, uh... I was just wondering if you were hungry." My words felt clumsy, like they didn't belong in the charged air between us. "I'm making dinner. It's nothing fancy, just chicken and potatoes, but... you're welcome to join."
Colt turned to me, but he didn't answer right away. He just stood there, watching me, the light catching in his eyes like he saw more than I was ready to admit. He had this way of letting silence stretch, like he didn't mind the weight of it. Most people rush to fill the gaps, to smooth over the quiet with words, but not Colt. He let it linger, let it settle between us like he was comfortable in it.
Finally, he tossed the towel aside, nodding, slow and deliberate. "Yeah, that sounds good," he said, voice as steady as ever. "Haven't eaten much all day."
