Page 17 of Broken Cedar

He goes still. “No.” The answer is immediate.

I swallow. “You didn’t even think about it.”

His eyes finally meet mine. “I don’t need to.”

“That’s not true.” The words come out too sharp, and I wince at my own tone.

He doesn’t flinch. “It is.”

I take a step closer. “It’s seven days, Colt.” My voice drops to a near-whisper. “I’m leaving after.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” His voice is quiet, but something in it makes me stop.

“What does that mean?”

He looks at me, and for a second, I see how tired he is. Not physically. Something deeper. “You leave,” he says. The simplicity of it hurts. He doesn’t look at me. “You go back to your life.” My throat tightens, but I say nothing. “And I stay here.” The words hang between us. Because that’s the part neither of us wants to say out loud. This is temporary for me. For him, it has never been.

“I’m not asking you to leave,” I say softly.

“No.”

“Then what?”

His laugh is quiet and humorless. “You really think that makes it easier?”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know.

He looks toward the barn doors, toward the dark stretch of ranch beyond them. “Last night wasn’t nothing.”

My breath catches. “I know.”

“No, Hallie.” His eyes come back to mine. “You don’t.” The words aren’t cruel. They’re almost sad. “I spent eight years telling myself that I had to get over you.”

My chest tightens. “Colt—”

“I convinced myself it was just because we grew up together. Because you were my best friend. Because you left and that made it easier to pretend it was something I’d imagined.”

He shakes his head slightly. “Then you came back.” Neither of us moves. “And I lasted one night.” The honesty of it hits harder than anything else he could have said.

“I’m not asking you to promise anything,” I whisper, taking a step toward him.

“That’s the problem.” He takes a step backward.

I frown. “What?”

“You think that makes this simple.”

“It could,” I say.

“No, Hallie.” He takes a step toward me. Not enough to touch, just enough that I feel the pull between us. “It already isn’t.”

I look down. Because he’s right. The hardest part is that he’s always right. “I leave next Sunday,” I say. I glance back up at him. “And you stay here.”

He turns slightly, facing the barn doors again, “Yeah.” There’s a beat of silence. I watch him reach up and drag a hand slowly across the back of his neck.

“So what are we actually afraid of?”

His eyes lift to mine. And for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then he says, “I won’t survive watching you leave again.” The words are so quiet I almost wish he hadn’t said them. Because now I have to feel them.