▍ 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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He mulled it over, his eyes briefly slipping from the road to linger on me, something unspoken passing between us. "Let go, huh?" His voice had dropped, more thoughtful, as if he was actually considering the weight of my words. "Not sure I'm the best at that."
"Maybe you should try it sometime," I offered, and though it sounded light, I wasn't entirely joking. There was always a tension with Colt, a quiet heaviness in how he moved through the world, like he carried things he didn't talk about. Things he didn't know how to set down.
He didn't respond right away. Just a small nod, as if tucking my words away for later. Then, with that effortless shift he always seemed to manage, he changed the subject, his tone teasing again. "You're the one who likes all that introspective stuff. Books and slow dances in the rain? You must be deep, Lemon."
I laughed, but this time it felt different, a flicker of something else underneath it. "What about you?" I couldn't help the curiosity creeping into my voice. "I've seen you reading before. You've got a deep side, too, I bet."
Colt's gaze shifted back to the road, but something in his posture changed. His shoulders tensed, just the slightest bit, like I'd touched a nerve. "I wouldn't say that," he muttered, his voice lower now, more restrained.
"Oh, come on," I nudged him lightly, my fingers brushing against his arm. He still wouldn't look at me, and that only made me push a little harder. "You're not getting away that easily. What's the last book you read?"
Colt's fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel, his jaw flexing as if he was considering whether to answer at all. For a moment, I thought he'd shrug it off, bury whatever he was about to say beneath that familiar wall he liked to keep up. But then, in that same low voice, he muttered, "It was a book my mom sent me."
I blinked, surprised. Colt wasn't one to talk about his family—at least, not his mom. He'd mentioned his father a couple of times, but never her. It was like there was a boundary he kept between himself and anyone else when it came to that part of his life. "Your mom sends you books?"
"Yeah." His voice was quieter now, the rough edges of his usual tone softened. "Every year, on my birthday."
The silence stretched between us, thickening as I tried to process what he'd just said. I didn't want to push too hard, didn't want to pry, but curiosity gnawed at me. "Do you read them?"
Colt's eyes stayed on the road, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—a kind of vulnerability I wasn't used to seeing. "Sometimes. She always picks something... different."
I raised an eyebrow, trying to picture what kind of book Colt's mom would send him. "Different how?"
He hesitated, then finally, he sighed. "Last year, she sent me East of Eden."
I blinked, surprised. "East of Eden? Steinbeck's epic about good, evil, and everything in between?""Yeah." His lips twitched into a brief, almost self-conscious smile. "Strange, right?"
