The late summer heat clung to the air, thick and heavy, as you worked in the quiet of the barn. The scent of hay and aged wood filled your lungs while the soft rustling of horses in their stalls was the only sound—until footsteps approached behind you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be workin’ this late.”

You glanced over your shoulder to see Grady, hands stuffed in his pockets, boots scuffing against the dusty barn floor. He wasn’t much for words, not when he didn’t have to be, but the way he hovered at the entrance made something flutter low in your stomach.

“Didn’t think you’d come looking for me,” you teased, turning back to the saddle you were adjusting.

He let out a quiet chuckle, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to, just—kinda happened.”

A silence settled between you, the kind that had grown comfortable over the past few weeks. Somewhere along the way, the boy who had barely spoken when he picked you up from the airport had become something else—something softer, more familiar.

You felt it when he stood just behind you, close enough that the warmth of him brushed against your back.

“You’ll be leavin’ soon,” he murmured.

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should’ve been. You swallowed hard, tightening the strap on the saddle. “Yeah. Guess I will.”

Grady hesitated, then exhaled a little too sharply—like he was pushing himself to say something. “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “I wish you weren’t.”

You turned to him, heart stuttering. His green eyes flickered down, then back up, uncertainty laced in every inch of him.

“I wish I wasn’t either,” you admitted.

For a second, he just stood there, studying you like he was memorizing the moment. Then, finally, finally, he lifted a hand, fingers ghosting over yours where they rested against the saddle.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough to say everything he couldn’t. He then leaned down—