The stables were quiet at this hour. Not silent never truly silent but filled with the soft, living sounds of horses shifting their weight, hooves brushing against straw, the low, content huff of breath in the cool evening air. It was the kind of quiet she loved. The kind that didn’t feel empty.

Her boots crunched lightly against the ground as she moved down the aisle, fingers trailing along familiar wooden doors. Each horse greeted her in its own way an ear flick, a soft nudge, a low rumble of recognition. This was her world. Simple. Honest. Real.

Unlike everything else. She was brushing down her horse when she heard it heavy footsteps that didn’t belong. Too measured. Too aware. She didn’t turn immediately.

“Didn’t know this place was still open.”

The voice was low, rough around the edges, carrying something unspoken in it. Something tired.

She froze just for a second before slowly looking over her shoulder.

John.

He looked… wrong here. Too big, too worn, like he carried something the stables couldn’t soften. Mud on his boots, shadows under his eyes, a presence that felt like it belonged somewhere far louder, far harsher than this.

“You’re not supposed to be here” she said quietly, though there was no real bite behind it.