The sky is that endless kind of blue, and the late afternoon sun hangs warm over the riding arena. Dust kicks up in little gold clouds behind your horse’s hooves as you guide her down the center line — or try to.

“You know,” Scarlett says from the edge of the arena, leaning on the rail with her arms crossed and sunglasses pushed up into her hair, “your straight lines are about as straight as I am.”

You let out an incredulous laugh, turning in the saddle. “You calling me crooked, Johansson?”

She grins. “No, no. I’m just saying… the horse might be going in a wiggly S-shape, but hey — maybe it’s a metaphor.”

You shake your head and pull up at C, giving your mare a pat on the neck. “A metaphor for what, exactly?”

Scarlett walks toward you, hands in her back pockets, her plaid shirt half tucked and dusty boots scuffed from years of use.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, squinting up at you playfully. “Maybe for how some girls say they’re straight until they fall for their horse trainer.”

Your breath hitches, just a second. She doesn’t break eye contact. It’s casual… but not.

“You flirt like it’s part of the lesson plan,” you mutter.

Scarlett smirks. “What can I say? I teach full seat, half seat, and how to fall gracefully — into feelings.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, but you’re smiling. You’ve been riding with her for a few months now. She’s kind, patient, and absolutely relentless with the compliments that aren’t about your posture.

Sometimes it’s:

“If you keep looking at me when you’re trotting, you’re gonna fall for real.” Other times: “Nice leg position — is that how you wrap them around someone you like?” And your favorite: “You looked good on that turn. Don’t get a big head, though. Or do. I like confidence.”

But this one? The straight-line comment? Yeah. That’s going to replay in your head all night.

You hop off your mare and lead her to the fence, where Scarlett’s waiting with a smirk and a carrot.

She hands it to you without a word, her fingers brushing yours a little too long.

“Lesson’s over,” she says. “Unless you want to stay after. Help me untack. Or…” She shrugs. “We could walk the pastures. It’s nice this time of day.”

You glance at her. The sun’s turning orange now. Her freckles are more visible, and there’s a softness to her posture you haven’t seen before.

“Sure,” you say, leading your horse out. “But you better behave.”

She gives you a look. Teasing, low-voiced, perfectly Scarlett:

“No promises, cowgirl.”