▍ 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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What I hated most was how easily I could still picture the kiss.
It wasn't even the kiss itself, not really. It wasn't the way his lips pressed against mine, or the way his hand settled on my back, cautious but firm, like he was afraid I might pull away. It was everything that came after. The pauses in our conversations, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, like we were both thinking the same thing but didn't dare speak it out loud. That kiss had taken something easy between us and turned it upside down. Now it was all tangled up in what-ifs and should-haves.
I hated that it changed everything, because it wasn't supposed to. We were supposed to be the same, supposed to be Rem and Lem, just like always. But every time I saw him now, something hung in the air between us. A weight. The unspoken truth that we'd crossed a line, and there was no pretending otherwise.
But now, every time I walked into a bar like this—our bar—my stomach twisted up in knots, half-expecting to see him and half-dreading it too. It wasn't just the place, though that was bad enough. It was the memory of what used to be simple between us. The way we'd meet after our first ride of the season, swapping stories about close calls and the bulls that had thrown him too soon. It used to be easy. Light.
But the kiss? That kiss took all of that away. From me. From him.
I scanned the dance floor, my eyes moving over the sea of cowboy hats, the smell of beer and sweat mixing into something almost stifling. Each face blurred into the next, none of them the one I was hoping, or maybe fearing, to see. And the worst part? Every now and then, someone would move just right, their hat tilted, their stance familiar enough to make my heart hitch in my chest. Only for it to drop again when they turned and it wasn't him.
Where the hell was he?
I pulled my phone out, staring at the empty screen. No message, no call. A year ago Rem would've been the one to text first, asking if I was on my way, or if I'd gotten caught up with something at the ranch. He'd have been waiting, probably already halfway through his first drink, teasing me the second I walked through the door.
But now?
Now, I couldn't even count on him to show up.
My thumb hovered over his name, the letters blurring as I stared at the screen. The urge to call him crept up, unbidden and unwelcome, pulling at me in that familiar way that left me feeling raw. But I shoved the phone back into my pocket before I could act on it. Desperation didn't suit me, never had, never would. And yet, it clung to me now, a silent weight that threatened to unravel the fragile calm I'd been holding onto.
Damn it, Rem.
I tugged my jacket tighter around me, feeling the air in the bar grow thicker, more suffocating with each passing minute. The lights dimmed, the music shifted, and the crowd moved with it. I made my way toward the back wall, where the old payphones still hung, relics of another time, when things were simpler. They hadn't been touched in years, probably still covered in dust from back when we were just kids, sneaking into this place after the rodeo.
