Apparently he reads me the same way, because he crosses the distance between us with that loose, purposeful stride and stops close enough that I have to look up to meet his eyes.
And whatever he sees there…he knows.
"Don't," he says.
Just that. One word, quiet enough that Hadley doesn't look up from where she's crouched beside me, examining something on the ground with focused intensity.
"Don't what?" I answer, because I'm not ready to admit he's right.
"You're already packing," he says. "I can see it."
I hold his gaze and don't confirm it, which is its own kind of confirmation.
Something shifts in his expression. Not anger. Not the frustration I'm braced for, the kind that would make this easier, that would give me something to push back against and justify the decision I'm turning over in my head.
It's something quieter than that and harder to deflect.
"Riley."
The way he says my name does something I don't have a word for.
"She's fine," I say, glancing down at Hadley. "We're fine. But that doesn't mean—"
"She is," he agrees, cutting me off gently. "Because nothing happened. Because I had eyes on it and I moved when I needed to and it didn't go further than it did."
"This time."
"This time," he repeats, and he doesn't flinch from it, doesn't try to smooth it over or tell me I'm overreacting. "And I'm not going to stand here and promise you there's no risk, because you'd seethrough that in about half a second. I'm not interested in lying to you."
That stops me.
Because I expected reassurance. I expected the version of this conversation where he tells me everything is under control and I should trust him and it's all going to be fine. I've had that conversation before, with people who meant it and people who didn't, and it never landed the way it was supposed to.
This lands differently.
"What I'm telling you," he continues, his voice lower now, steady in that way that makes it hard to look away from him, "is that running doesn't fix it.
Colt knows where the ranch is. He knows where your mother lives. Putting miles between us doesn't put miles between you and this, it just puts miles between you and me. Colt has been warned."
My chest tightens at that.
"And its better having you here," he says. "Close."
The word sits between us, doing more work than it should.
I want to argue with the logic of it. I want to find the flaw in it, the place where his reasoning breaks down and my plan holdsup, but the frustrating thing about what he just said is that he's not wrong.
Running feels like safety.
It isn't.
"You can't promise she'll be safe," I say, because I need him to hear what I'm actually asking.
His jaw tightens just slightly.
"No," he says quietly. "But I can promise I won't stop until she is."
And the worst part…is that I believe him.
