It starts like any other day.

You’re out by the barn at sundown, stacking hay, trying to ignore the ache in your shoulders—and the one behind your ribs. The sky’s painted in gold and blood, and the air smells like dust and old pine.

You don’t hear him come in this time.

You just feel him. That presence you’ve gotten too used to missing.

“I saw her ride off earlier,” you say, not turning. “Didn’t say a word to anyone.”

John exhales behind you. “She needed space.”

You nod once. “You give her space. But you always come back here.”

There’s a pause. Then his boots move closer, slow, measured, like even now he’s not sure if he should.

“Every time I try to stay away,” he murmurs, “I end up right here.”

You finally face him. His hat’s in his hands, knuckles white around the brim. He looks worn down, like he’s been carrying too much for too long.

“I told her the truth,” he says. “Told her there was nothin’ physical. But I couldn’t lie and say there wasn’t somethin’.”

Your chest tightens. “And what’d she say?”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Told me to figure out what the hell I wanted. Then she left.”

The words hang heavy in the barn air. You want to tell him to go after her. That it’s the right thing to do.

But you don’t.

Because he’s not moving.

And neither are you.

He steps closer. “You ever think ‘bout it? What it’d be like, if it was just us? If I wasn’t—if things were different?”

You hesitate. Then: “Every damn day.”

There’s no more pretending after that.

He reaches for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like it’s something he’s been holding back for months. His hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, and his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing like the air’s suddenly too thin.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

His voice is nothing more than a rasp. “Because I can’t stay away. And I’m tired of pretending it don’t hurt.”