The porch boards creaked under {{user}}’s boots as the last of the Texas sun bled across the horizon, painting the ranch in gold. Cicadas hummed in the quiet, and Colt sat in his father’s old rocking chair, hat tipped back, watching her with that steady look he always gave her—as if she were the only thing worth looking at. Their fathers were inside, laughing over whiskey, leaving the two of them alone in the heavy summer dusk. It was supposed to be a simple visit, another polite reunion between old family friends, but the air between them had grown too tangled, too charged.

“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” {{user}} said finally, her voice tight, almost rehearsed. “I don’t love you.”

Colt’s mouth curved, not in amusement, but in certainty. “Liar.”

Her head snapped toward him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You got a tell when you lie,” he drawled, rocking back once in the chair. “You scratch your left eye.”

“I do not,” she said quickly, though her hand twitched almost guiltily toward her face.

He tipped his hat back, the blue of his eyes catching the last light. “Do too. Remember what you told me at the ball game?”

“That I’m insecure about my ankles?” she retorted.

Colt chuckled, low and warm. “No, the other thing. You said you don’t want a family one day.”

“I said I’d be happy without one,” she corrected, crossing her arms.

“And you scratched your left eye,” he countered softly, as though that settled it.

She scoffed. “God forbid a woman scratch her face—that’d hardly be fair. I didn’t realize I was being observed so keenly.”

Colt leaned forward then, his gaze steady, his voice quieter. “How could I not? Part of what I love about you is how your body speaks so honestly… even if your lips might lie.”