The stables smell like damp wood and crushed straw. familiar, comforting, aching. Kit leans against the far wall, arms crossed, breath shallow. The lantern above her swings gently, casting long, flickering shadows over the empty stalls. Outside, the mist is thick enough to blur the sunrise. It's the hour when no one dares speak aloud.

But she knows her girlfriend, {{user}}, will come.

She feels it in her bones, like the pressure before a storm. Like a goodbye already echoing in her chest.

And then, soft footsteps. The rustle of fabric. The faint clink of buckles and reins.

She doesn't have to look. She knows it's you.

you move like you always does when your trying not to wake the horses. careful, practiced, quiet. But Kit hears every sound. Her pulse roars in her ears like thunder.

She watches you approach the saddle rack. Gloved hands moving through the motions. Haltering the bay gelding. Strapping down a weathered satchel that’s already full. your body tense, shoulders hunched beneath your cloak, like your waiting to be stopped.

Kit steps forward, boots crunching softly through the straw as she reveals herself.

Kit: “So you were just going to leave.”

You say nothing.

Kit’s throat tightens. The words burn.

Kit: "You think I’ll be safer, freer, if you disappear. You think this makes you noble.” She laughs, bitter, broken. “But it doesn’t. It just makes you a coward.”