Page 144 of Sunrise & Serenity

“At one point?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

I hate the honesty in those words. Because more than excited or relieved, she sounds scared.

I step closer before I even realize I’m doing it. Not touching her. Just close enough that if she leans forward even a little, I’ll feel it.

“You know what the problem is?” I ask quietly.

Her eyes lift to mine. “What?”

“I can’t stand here and act casual about the idea of losing you now.”

The vulnerability that flashes across her face almost undoes me. But right behind it comes fear again. Not fear of me. Fear of what that means.

Suddenly I know why she didn’t tell me. Because the second she did, what we have stopped being easy. Now it involves making choices.

And staying with me might be the wrong choice.

She swallows hard. “I’m trying to figure out what I want without somebody else deciding it for me.”

“I’m not trying to decide for you.”

“I know.” Her voice shakes slightly. “But you’re looking at me as if I’m already gone, and it makes me feel like maybe I don’t even get the chance.”

Christ. I close my eyes briefly. Because none of this is coming out right.

I’m angry that she didn’t trust me enough to tell me. I’m hurt because I finally let myself believe in something permanent. And beneath it all is this ugly certainty that even if she chooses to stay now, someday she’ll still leave.

The feeling sits sharp and familiar beneath my ribs.

Sage’s shoulders sag, her face drawn, the fight draining out of her little by little.

“We’re both upset. Neither of us is thinking clearly. Maybe we just need to take some time to cool down,” she says quietly.

Every instinct in me pushes against the idea. Don’t let her walk away. Fix it. Say something to make it better.

Instead, I shove my hands into my pockets. If I touch her right now, I’m not sure I’ll let her leave at all.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Probably.”

The sadness that spreads across her face almost makes me take it back. Almost.

After a second, she nods once, like she’s accepting something she doesn’t want to. Then she turns and heads back to the house.

I stand in the driveway for a long time after she disappears inside. Long enough for the heat to sink through the back of my shirt and the rope hanging over my shoulder to feel twice as heavy.

The screen door doesn’t open again. Not sure why I thought it might.

A leaden weight presses on my chest, but I force myself to move, heading on autopilot toward the stallion barn while my brain replays the conversation.

I was trying to figure out how to ask you to stay.

Jesus Christ.

The words are out there, exposed. I shouldn’t have said them. Or maybe I should’ve said them earlier.

I shove open the barn door and head inside. Cooler air wraps around me, carrying the smell of leather, hay, and dirt baked into old timber. It should be a relief. It’s not.