▍ 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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Colt's gaze tracked me as I moved, steady and quiet like always—like he knew I needed space but wasn't sure how far I'd go once I took it. I didn't look back, but I felt the weight of it, like a thread tied at my spine. A tether, still holding.
The grass bent under my boots as I crossed toward the makeshift bar—if you could even call it that. Just the bed of a truck, tailgate down, coolers wedged between spare ropes and old flannel shirts. It smelled like pine and gasoline and that same scent- something sweet burning slow. Didn't matter. It all sat too heavy tonight.
I reached for the first thing I saw, twisted the cap off without thinking. The bottle hissed open, cold glass against my palm, but it didn't cool the heat crawling under my skin. I took a sip, slow. Let it settle on my tongue. Let it burn a little on the way down. Anything to feel grounded.
The noise behind me softened—laughter, voices, the low snap of the fire. I let it blur. Let the edge of the world go quiet for just a second.
And then—
"Lemon?"
That voice. Low. Familiar. Dipped in ease like it hadn't bruised me once.
I froze. Bottle still halfway to my lips, pulse thudding loud in my throat. I didn't need to turn to know. My body already knew.
But I turned anyway.
Rem stood just a few feet off, hands tucked lazy into his jacket pockets like he hadn't once torn my name in half just by saying it too soft. His smile curled slow, practiced. That same boyish thing he'd always worn like armor. His hair was longer than I remembered—messy in that deliberate way, like he'd just stepped off a horse or out of someone else's life.
"Rem."
His name slipped out before I could catch it, soft and instinctive, like the breath you don't realize you've been holding. It wasn't a choice. It was reflex—like muscle memory. Like a door creaking open even after you've nailed it shut.
The sound of it—his name on my tongue again—settled between us like dust. Not heavy, not loud. Just... there. And somehow louder than anything else.
I hadn't seen him in months. But the memories? They knew no such mercy. They came back like water breaking past a dam—quiet at first, then all at once. His hands on my waist during that Fourth of July dance. The way he used to say my name when he was too tired to lie.
"I didn't think I'd see you here," I said, and I hated how fragile it sounded, like I was still surprised by him—like I hadn't rehearsed this moment a hundred times in my head.
His smile widened, but it wasn't real. Not like it used to be. There was a crease of something bitter behind it now. "Yeah? Thought bonfires weren't really your thing anymore."
He glanced at the bottle in my hand, eyes moving over me like he was doing inventory. Like he was taking stock of all the ways I'd changed without him.
"They're not," I said, the words clipped, shoulders stiff. "Colt thought we could use a break."
