Firefly Nights

CHAPTER 17.33

    By now, the shape of him was familiar.
Not just the broad lines of his back when he moved through the barn shirtless at sunrise, or the scrape of stubble against my shoulder when he rolled over in his sleep. It was deeper than that. Quieter. The kind of familiarity that lived in shared silence and half-finished sentences. In the way he never reached for me in the dark, but always made space if I did.

It had been a month.
Since the storm. Since the porch. Since I told him I couldn't follow and he said he'd come back.
And still, somehow, he was here.

He didn't press, and I didn't explain. We just kept moving—side by side, frost-bitten and wind-chapped and bone-tired. I slept in his bed more nights than I didn't, but we never talked about it. He'd tuck the quilt up around my hips and kiss the scar on my ribs like it was a vow, and I'd pretend I didn't stay awake after, counting his breaths like they were mine to hold.

This morning had started like most of them did—with too much to do and not enough hours of daylight to get it all done. The kind of day that left your skin cold under your flannel and your boots stiff from yesterday's frozen mud. By the time I got back to the barn mid-morning, the sun had climbed just high enough to take the bite out of the wind, but the chill still lingered in the shadows.

Colt was out with the hose, letting the spray arc in thin silver ribbons over the horses' coats as they shifted in the lanes—ears flicking, breath fogging, steam rising from their backs. Spice stood still in the center of it all, dark and quiet, letting the cold water settle the dust clinging to her sides.

I stayed back a minute, just watching.

His shirt had been tossed over the gatepost, flannel and damp. His back glistened in the pale morning sun, breath rising in clouds off his skin. There was a rawness to the sight of him like that—unaware of being seen.

And for a moment, I let it stay that way.

Honey shifted under me, hooves crunching the frost-laced gravel. I patted her neck once, then swung my leg over and dropped to the ground. My boots hit hard earth, frozen shallow. I wiped the chill from my face with the back of my glove, catching sight of the fleece-lined flannel I'd snagged on the paddock latch earlier. My sleeves were streaked with rust and hay dust. My hands smelled like saddle oil, cinnamon, and cold leather. I was exhausted. But I was also... steady.

"Hey, Colt," I called, voice soft but clear. "You in there?"

He turned at the sound, blinking like he was surfacing from something. His gaze found mine and settled. No flicker. No hesitation. Just that quiet knowing we'd grown used to—like we'd skipped a hundred conversations and landed somewhere true.

I reached back into my saddlebag and pulled out the canteen. Held it up.

"Cider." I said, stepping forward just enough that my breath clouded between us. "I think it's my best batch yet."

He didn't speak right away. Just walked toward me slow through the veil of rising steam and slanted November light.

The hose hung limp from one hand, still dripping, its spray forgotten. His skin gleamed where it caught the sun—shoulders bare, damp, glinting with a kind of heat that hadn't been dulled by the season. Not showy. Not posed. Just real. Like the water had stripped him back to something more honest. A man rinsing off dust and sweat and ghosts, unaware of the way it made my heart stutter like it hadn't in years.

He reached for the canteen and his fingers brushing mine, knocking something loose in my chest. A quiet recognition. Not just of him, but of us. How easy this had become. How dangerous that ease could be.

He drank slowly. Tipped his head back like he trusted the sky not to fall on him. The cider slipped down his throat in a glinting arc, and I watched it the way you watch rivers cut through rock—not because you mean to, but because you can't look away. He hadn't shaved. Water beaded at the edge of his jaw, then slid—over the line of his throat, down his chest.