Untitled

Enzo didn’t move. He just stared at the rag Javi had thrown, like it held the answers to all of their problems. The shop was too quiet now—no clanging tools or sputtering engines to hide behind. Just his brother’s words ringing in the air, heavy and weighted.

Someone came by. With an offer. Enzo’s jaw flexed. Of course they had. This place was barely standing upright most days, and he was the one propping it up with tired hands and wishful thinking. But the worst part? The money sounded good. Too good. He could finally cut ties with The Vipers, square things up before someone showed up at his doorstep with clenched fists or a possible death wish. Hell, he could finally cover the rest of his mom’s medical bills without dodging phone calls or working himself into the ground. No more late nights, no more secrets. Just clean hands and a clean slate. For the first time in a long time.

But then what? He’d work for someone else’s shop? Take orders from some twenty-something with a business degree and no idea how to fix a carburetor? He could do it—Enzo was good with his hands, good with engines, always had been—but the thought of leaving Kelly’s gutted him in a way he didn’t have words for. This shop wasn’t just a building. It was the first place he’d ever felt like he belonged. And without it, what was left? Who the hell was he, if not the guy who kept this place running when no one else would?

He exhaled, the weight of it all making it hard for him to breathe. Who was Javi to consider an offer like this when he'd barely stepped foot in the place after their dad died? Maybe he couldn't blame him for being enticed. But Enzo? He wasn’t sure he could walk away. Not because he didn’t want the freedom—but because without the shop, without this—he didn’t know if he had anything left that felt like purpose. Just a man with nothing but his regrets and the ghosts of people he never quite measured up to. "You can't possibly be thinking of selling this place. If dad put you on the deed, then this isn't why. And you know he'll be rolling in his grave the second he finds out. If this place still means anything to you, you wouldn't sell it to some guy who's going to tear it down and turn it into a bed and breakfast or another fucking McDonalds."

“You think I give a damn what he’d be rolling in his grave about?” he says, and this time there’s no attempt to sand down the edge. “He rolled right over us when he was still alive, Enzo. What, now we’re just supposed to be caretakers to his memory like he didn’t leave us cracked down the middle and bleeding out in silence for years?”

Javi takes a step back in, just one—enough to be heard, but not close enough to feel like he’s staying. “You keep talking like this shop is some holy place, worthy of being saved. Like it wasn’t the scene of the crime for every one of his disappointments. For every night he stayed late just to avoid us, or worse—just to remind us how we were never enough.”

He gestures toward the bench. “That blood? His or mine, who knows anymore? It’s all soaked into the same goddamn wood.”

He breathes out now—slow and deliberate, like someone trying to cool something down from boiling. “Look, I get it. I do. You found something here. Maybe even built something. But I was never part of it. Not really. I was just the wrench when things broke and the bolt when they needed someone to hold it all together. This place? It never gave me purpose. Just gave me reasons to keep swallowing mine. So frankly, I don't see the point in saving it.”

He drags a hand through his hair, pacing once before stilling. “I’m not saying I will sell. I didn’t say yes, remember?” His voice softens a hair. “But, I won't feel guilty for thinking about it. For even wanting something different. Something that doesn’t hurt every time I breathe it in or have to dry by it and look at it.”

He meets Enzo’s eyes—full on, no flinch. “If Dad did put me on the deed, maybe it's his way of making peace with all the shit he never said. Or maybe it was a mistake on his part. Either way, it means I finally get a say in something. Maybe for the first damn time in my life and so do you.”

He reaches for the door again, this time his hand is firm on the frame. “You don’t want to sell? Fine. Just say so. Fight for it, if that's what you're propelled to do. But don’t pretend like staying means you’re the only one holding this family up. You stayed and kept it running, yeah. But I survived, too. And I don't need the memories to hang onto.”

He pauses, lets that sit, lets the weight of his words settle like dust in the stillness between them.

Not that she had expected the fight that had risen in Javier to die down, when he continued on, making sure to harp on how everything was her fault, Britt, in exasperation, rubbed the top of her head as she blinked in disbelief and shook her head. Eventually her hand went flying off and landed against her thigh with a bit of a smack. 

❝ Oh, I wasn't shocked when you left. ❞ Brown eyes watched and followed his movements, the way his hands gripped a glass or his arm flexed as he moved a bottle and wiped down the bar, and Britt remembered easily the way those same hands had gripped her. The way those arms had pulled her close. Most of all, the way neither of them held onto her. 

A nervous, anxious sigh breathed out through parted lips and the blonde looked over her shoulder. No one seemed to be picking up on what was becoming a heated exchange between their bartenders, and for that, Britt was grateful. ❝ I remember all of it, too. I know I'm difficult, I know I'm a pain in the ass. I push people away when I get scared. ❞ She paused, it was brief, yet she held onto him visually for just a moment. ❝ But what did you do Javier when I needed reassurance and patience? You got mad at me. Like now, your response is to throw how fucked up I am in my face. I'm damaged, yeah, but I really am trying to work on myself. Don't stand there and act valiant like you haven't used my trauma as a crutch—as your get out of jail free card. ❞

When he came out from behind the bar and approached her, Britt was cautious. While he'd never once showed any signs of it, in the past this is where some had gotten aggressive. It was a reflex of a woman that had been through things. In trusting him, the blonde didn't move. ❝ You dumped me, Jav. How is that trying? How is that giving a damn? You called it quits rather easily, especially for someone so upset right now. ❞ In the closer proximity she searched his eyes for something that told her that this frustration was actually about her.

❝ I never played any games with you, oh my god, ❞ Britt practically groaned. For a moment she pinched her fingers around her forehead, then eventually looked up at—well, how nice, his back. ❝ The last thing I ever wanted was for you to walk away. I didn't want to lose you. I've been through some shit, okay? I'm sorry it was messy, so messy, and not at all perfect. But—maybe, just fucking maybe, I felt so good with you that I was going through the processes of healing? ❞

So he followed. Not storming. Just… moving. Controlled. Precise. Like he was trying not to scare her, but couldn’t sit in that space between them any longer. He stopped a few feet from the table where she wiped at half-dried rings of beer like they might answer for the past. “You think I didn’t try?” His voice was low, not sharp but frayed around the edges. “You think walking away was easy?”

Javi ran a hand over his jaw, the other resting on the back of a chair like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I gave you everything I could, Britt. My time. My patience. My effort. I was patient every time you pulled away, and I waited—even when I didn’t know what I was waiting for.” He exhales hard through his nose, gaze catching hers and holding it this time—no bar between them now, no glass to polish, no shield to hide behind. “But I’m human. And yeah, I got angry. It wrecked me to keep being treated like a burden for showing up. Like you were bracing for me to hurt you when all I wanted to do was stick around, feel it out.”

The words settle between them like dust. “You say you were healing? Maybe you were. But I didn’t know that. You didn’t let me know that. You just kept pushing me to the edge of the room, and then got quiet like I was supposed to read your goddamn mind.” He laughs then—but it’s short, brittle. “I didn’t dump you because I stopped caring. I walked away because I couldn’t keep fighting someone who didn’t believe I was on their side.” A pause. His voice softens just a bit—gravel shifting into something almost tender. “You say you didn’t want to lose me?” He tilts his head, eyes scanning hers. “Then why the hell did you act like I was already gone?”

His voice drops into something quiet. Not accusing—just tired. “I didn’t want perfect, Britt. I just wanted real. Even if it was messy. Especially if it was messy. But I can’t keep proving myself to a ghost of who you’re scared I’ll become.”

He leans a little more against the chair now, like the weight of it all is starting to catch up. “So if you’re really trying… if you’re actually healing… then just tell me that.”

Another beat. One last truth, maybe the hardest one. “Because I never stopped giving a damn. I just got tired of being the only one getting dragged for it.”

Mateo didn't turn to him right away. In fact, he let the words trail off and settle, let Javi sip his drink. He looked like, for a moment he might just ignore the whole thing — he always gave off that kind of energy. But then he turned to Javi, shifting enough to give him a good once over — from the drink, to the half-buttoned shirt, to the way Javi relaxed against the railing like he owned it. His eyes lingered before sliding back up to meet Javi's with a look that said he wasn't in any rush to answer. "Depends," he echoed. "You flirt like that with everyone, or just the ones who don't scare easy?" He flicked ash off the edge of his cigarette, then finally gave the smallest tilt of his mouth — not quite a smile, but something knowing. "Mateo," he finally said, looking back out at the water, taking another drag of his cigarette. "But you can stick with Trouble. If it helps." He gestured with a nod of his head to the drink in his hand. "Yours?"

He lets that hang in the air just long enough to register, then takes another sip, letting the tequila linger on his tongue before swallowing. “Javi,” he offers finally, like it’s a secret rather than a name. “But hey—if Trouble’s what you answer to, I’ll try to keep it up.”

He shifts slightly, angling his body a bit more toward Mateo, shoulder brushing the sunlight as it slips lower in the sky, before following his gaze to the drink in his hand. “Tequila, lime, and a splash of soda. Keeps the heat at arm’s length. Want a taste?” Despite his words possibly carrying some double meaning, Javi plays it off.

There's a quiet beat, then a glance down at Mateo’s cigarette—eyes flicking briefly to his mouth, then back up again. Enraptured. “You always smoke that slow, or just when someone's watching and takes an interest?” He doesn't smile, not fully. But there’s a spark behind his eyes now, something sharp and alive—like the first flicker of a match before it takes.

Kennedy wasn't sure how exactly the thick ass plastic on her ankle bracelet had gotten scuffed up enough to begin scratching the hell out of her ankle, but bandaids didn't seem to help- as the sharp edge of the roughed up plastic just rubbed right through them and caused more issues, but it'd been three days and she was over it. She'd already contacted her parole officer, leaving three messages by one, a handful of texts, and a couple of emails but she still hadn't heard back- so she was taking matters into her own hands with a metal nail file.

She'd been trying to file down the rough edges for only a minute when she realized she'd attracted more than a few glances, her cheeks flushing slightly as she defended herself with, "It's not what it looks like!"

“Really? ‘Cause it looks like you're trying to break out of a questionable situation.” He steps in a little, glancing down at the anklet and the nail file. “You tryna jailbreak yourself with a five-dollar nail file? What’s next—chewin’ through the bars with gum and nothin but attitude?”

He's teasing her but, there’s no real bite behind it. Just a long sigh and a look that softens, if only barely. “Lemme see it. Before you end up filing through your ankle instead.”

Javi crouches down in front of her, letting out another low whistle when he sees the raw skin underneath. “Damn, mujer. This thing’s eating you alive.” He gently takes the file from her hand, fingers brushing hers. No theatrics—just practical. He squints at the anklet like it's a busted carburetor. “They got the budget for surveillance tech but not for smooth edges. Classic.”

With a slow, steady motion, Javi starts filing—not at the lock, not near anything stupid, just at the jagged edge near her ankle. His movements are careful, precise. Like he’s done this kind of thing before, even if it was on engine parts and not glorified shackles. “You shoulda come to me sooner,” he mutters, not accusing, just matter-of-fact. “Would’ve saved you some skin and about six angry voicemails.” A small pause. “Next time, just say it’s chafing. No one’s gonna think you’re tunneling outta here like El Chapo.”

Enzo didn’t even bother to turn his head.

He just kept tightening the bolt he’d been working on, his jaw clenching with every word the other man spoke. The silence between them stretched on, punctuated only by the soft metallic click of the socket wrench and the hum of the shop’s overhead lights. But Javi’s voice carried. It always did. Loud, even when it was quiet. Sharp, even when he was trying to be soft.

“Still good at that,” Enzo answered finally, straightening up with a quiet exhale before wiping his hands on a grease-stained rag. “Making everything about you.”

He turned then, finally facing his brother—if that’s what you could call him. More like barely bonded and practically strangers in everything but a few shared ghosts. “You want a medal for covering my ass when I was a kid?” Enzo scoffed, unsure of where this memory had come from or what had compelled Javi to show up and pick a fight. “You think I asked for that? For any of this?” His voice was low, but steady. Cold in a way that didn’t come from disinterest. It came from practice. “I didn’t ask to be dumped into this family halfway through the damn movie, Javi. You all just made sure I never forgot it.”

The rag hit the workbench with a dull thud and Enzo folded his arms across his chest, the barrier doing nothing to protect him from the sharp pang of his brother's words. “You wanna talk about bleeding for this shop? You don't know how many years it took me to earn Dad's approval. He hardly saw me as a son until I was eighteen. Fact is, I ran this place when nobody else wanted to. I missed my shot at a life outside of Briar Ridge, at marrying the girl of my dreams... all so you and your ‘real family’ didn’t have to watch this place go under.”

He shook his head, something in his eyes flickering between pain and exhaustion. But he was numb to it now. “You have no idea what I've gone through to keep this place afloat. To pay our mother— my mother's medical bills. So yeah. Maybe I don’t look at you anymore. 'Cause every time I do, I see someone who's always been searching for reasons to hate me, just so he didn’t have to try and know me.”

Enzo stepped back, chest rising with each slow and steady breath, like he needed to rid himself of the memories before they choked him. “You wanna keep acting like I stole something from you? Fine. But if you're only here to remind me what a burden I am, you can leave. That much was burned into my memory long ago."

There’s a beat of silence. A long one.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he lies, almost convincingly. “But hell, guess I should’ve known better.”

He leans back against the bench, palms pressed to its scarred wood surface. The same one he used to sand down for hours when he couldn’t sleep. The same bench their father bled on once, after a blade slipped. Funny how the damn thing still stands amid all that stand before it.

“I know you didn’t ask for it,” Javi says, quieter now. “None of us did.” Still that didn't stop one of them—their brother—from expecting it to be his all the same.

His voice isn’t soft—it’s tired. Like the weight behind his bitterness is finally starting to show itself as the grief it’s always been. "Vos sos loco if you think you're the only one who lost somethin’,” he goes on, eyes steady on Enzo now. “You think I wanted to be that maje bouncing from job to job, dipping out every time things got heavy? You think I liked having a viejo who looked right through me—unless something was messed up or he needed someone to blame or to fix it?”

Javi shakes his head, jaw tight. “I don’t hate you, Enzo. Hell, I tried. I want to. Because maybe, every time I look at you behind that bench, or in this shop, all I see is everything I never got to be. Everything I gave up just to keep this damn family from going nuclear.” But, more particularly their eldest brother.

He laughs, bitter again, but cracked wide open now. “You got Dad's approval eventually? Great. Must’ve been nice to get it before he was too far gone to remember why he was disappointed in the rest of us. Enough to leave us out.”

Then his voice drops—softer, more like confession than an accusation. “I didn’t cover for you to get a medal. I did it ‘cause that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. Keep the peace. Take the heat. Make sure nobody else got crushed under the weight and pressure. I never realized how damn invisible it made me until it was too late.”

He picks up the rag again, starts wiping at a spotless wrench now, but his eyes stay fixed on Enzo. “I don’t want this shop,” he mutters. “I don’t want the legacy. You can keep it. You already have it. I just… I wanted it to make sense. Some part of it before...”

He swallows hard. This time, his voice trembles just a little. “But I think maybe I’ve been standing in this place too long, hoping to find something that ain’t here anymore.” Then, softer still: “Or maybe it never was.”

He tosses the rag onto the bench beside Enzo’s hand—not as a gesture of finality, but like an offering of truth that’s too raw to hold in any longer. And then he turns, not storming off, but walking slow—like the weight of the shop, the ghosts, and everything he never said aloud is heavier than it used to be.

He doesn’t look back when he adds, over his shoulder: “By the way… someone came by the other day. Said they were interested in the place. Nice suit, real polite. A real un sapo con billete. Asked for me by name.”

There's a pause—just long enough for it to land, but not long enough to linger. “Guess yours isn't the only one on the title here and we had no idea. Weird how that works, huh?” He shrugs like it means nothing. Like he’s just passing along a message. But the weight of it hangs in the air behind him, heavy and unspoken. “Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no, either. But, gotta say, the offer's pretty tempting. It could set me up for life. You, too. Could be a way out for us both.”

Javi’s hand lingers at the doorframe, knuckles brushing the old wood like muscle memory. Then he pushes it open, the pitch darkness bleeding in from the alleyway outside. “Figured you’d want to know. On the off chance it ever hits the market or at least hits someone's desk. Maybe you should think about it."

It fell slowly, and it wasn't anger that rose in it's place. She wasn't one that shifted into that emotion easily. Hurt began to ease into the shock and Lana felt as though he had been trying to rip her open with each verbal strike.

There was no interruption. She simply took it. Let the man get out every bad thought and feeling he had toward her. It felt as though he'd stoned her, then dragged her in front of the church to read her to rights. Lana felt bare standing there. Emotionally.

When he left, she finally seemed to breathe and the air moving in and out of her lungs felt sharp and painful. As though she were still being stabbed with daggers.

Once she collected herself, Lana headed out of the barn and saw one of the ranch hands working out the kinks of a hose nearby. She'd asked him to finish grooming Tuck for her and to saddle him up. If she wasn't back by the time that he was ready to go then to take the gelding to the indoor arena and warm him up.

Everything about her was subdued and she wasn't sure if the hand, Ande, had overheard anything but the expression on his face was unmistakable. But a moment later Lana was at the open door of the shed. "Javier," she said his name quietly. "Tell me one time you ever told me how you felt. Tell me one time you ever told me you wanted anything from me." The reason she'd treated things between them as just sex was because that's what she understood the arrangement to be.

The lines had been blurred plenty of times, but still, Lana had constantly reminded herself not to read into anything.

"When have you ever asked me to stay? When have you ever come to me? Or turned me away?" Disappointed, not in him, but in herself, Lana's gaze cast down. "Use you..." The cry in her throat nearly choked her but after a necessary moment of steeling herself, the simple, singular shake of her head came before she forged on. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been for me to come home? To this town, to this ranch? To the legacy that everyone else set out for me?" She was practically talking to her boots then, so she lifted her gaze and her eyes were wet with tears. The expression on her face was strained.

"I thought you were my friend." Lana wiped at her cheek. "I came to you because I felt comfortable. I felt peace. I felt... wanted." Out of the majority of the town Javier hadn't looked at her with the history that had been embedded into every inch of her existence. Things she couldn't outlive or outrun. "You... looked at me." Meaning, she thought he saw her, the person. Not the famous horseman Chapman's granddaughter, not the girl who had been supposed to marry that oldest Parker kid, not the girl who walked away from her Chapman destiny. "Or... I thought you did."

Another swallow, Lana had found it difficult to maintain eye contact now. She still felt so rocked, and winded, like she was still reeling from a sucker punch that seemingly had come out of nowhere.

"I'm sorry," Lana let out genuinely, "I never meant to make you feel that way." Was she the biggest asshole in the world? Treating someone so casually when they hadn't really been engaged in the same way. If he'd been getting over her, if he'd not been the initiator all this time... what did that make of her?

"Umm," she rubbed at the back of her neck and discomfort took her a couple of steps backward, "Ande will pay you when you're done. I'll leave the cash with him." Her head bobbed slowly and her arm wrapped around her front, almost holding herself as her hand moved up and down her own arm.

"I'm sorry I didn't notice everything you fixed and have done around here. I thought it... was just a job to you. We were..." Paying you. "But... thank you." Then Lana turned and walked away, her eyes immediately began searching the distance to see if Ande had taken Tuck to the arena.

He does however, hear her before he sees her again—her quiet voice curling around the name—his name— he’s heard a hundred different ways from her lips. Just never quite like this. Hurt. Shocked. Flabbergasted. It stops him cold, halfway through pulling the shed door closed behind him. The glove he was about to put on drops to the dirt by his feet with a soft thud, long forgotten.

He listens. The first few words that leave her mouth, feel like a slow burn down his back, lighting every nerve ending he tried to shove down just minutes before. He doesn’t move. Again, he can't. Not when she accuses him—rightfully—of never saying what he wanted out loud. Not when she lays bare the cracks in her chest like he just hadn't bothered to see them.

But, it’s the part where she says she thought he was her friend that finally punches a hole through whatever wall he started building between them.

He turns and Lana's standing there. He watches her as she wrap her arms around herself like she’s bracing for something colder to hit her than this dusty spring wind. Her voice isn't sharp. It isn’t smug. It's hurt. Honest. And it’s unraveling him in a way nothing else ever could.

His voice, when it comes, is rough from holding back too much. “Yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head once, like maybe he’s trying to shake loose the guilt that's crawling its way up the back of his neck. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I never said it.”

He looks at her, really looks at her now—like a man who's trying to memorize a moment he knows he's just screwed up. “You always came in like a storm, Lana. And me? I just stood there, mouth shut, pretending like I didn’t wanna drown in you anymore.” He huffs a laugh, and it's dry and quiet. “You thought I didn’t say anything ‘cause I didn’t care. But I didn’t say anything ‘cause I did. More than I probably should’ve. I didn’t think I had the right to ask for more from someone who never stays.”

His jaw tightens, then releases. There's no anger now—just weariness. Maybe something sadder. “I thought if I asked you to stay, you’d feel trapped. I thought if I asked for more, I’d lose what little of you I got to have. So I took whatever you gave me. And I told myself that it was enough. But maybe, it never was.”

He steps toward her now—not close, not the way he had before—but enough to be clear he’s not hiding behind tools or chores or his pride anymore. “I looked at you, Lana, and I saw you. Not the Chapman name. Not the town’s expectations. Just you. I didn't give a fuck about any of that. Still don't. And hell, maybe that was my mistake, thinkin' that was enough to keep you coming back for more than just a few nights of sweaty soaked sheets and some patched-up fence posts.”

He pauses then, his eyes locked on hers. “I never wanted your money. Didn't want anything really. Aside from just you I guess. I showed up because you called. And, I stayed because it felt like maybe... just maybe you needed me. Even if you didn’t ever say it out loud. I wanted to be there for you.”

A beat of silence passes, thick as a thundercloud. But, he burrows through it. “I’m not mad at you for leaving, not really,” he finishes, a bit quieter now. “I’m mad at myself for ever hoping you’d stay even while I knew you wouldn't.”

That's when he bends, picks up the glove from the dirt, and nods once toward her—not coldly, not even in understanding, just... like a man who's finally done carrying the weight of something too heavy in his chest.

“Take care, Lana.” He says soft. Seemingly final, but not unkind. And this time, when they part, he’s the one who doesn’t look back.

Golden Hour didn't need neon signs or playlists trying too hard — the ocean did most of the talking, and the rest came from clinking glasses and the low murmur of conversations behind him. Mateo was stretched out on a beach lounge near the edge of the bar’s deck, elbow hooked lazily on the armrest, an unlit cigarette balanced between his lips. He flicked his lighter open and effortlessly lit the thing up, the smoke curling lazily around his face as he looked out to the ocean, catching the last of the sun as it dipped toward the sea. Salt air clung to his skin, which was very quickly becoming familiar. He took a drag, slow and steady, then glanced over his shoulder, catching movement behind him like he'd practically felt the eyes. His gaze lingered, his entire demeanour cool but curious, and maybe a little amused. "You drinking," he began, giving them a deliberate once over," "or just here for the view?" He didn't offer a smile. Just exhaled smoke and let the question hang between them like he already knew the answer.

He lets Mateo’s question settle for a beat, the smoke swirling as the silence stretches just long enough to feel intimate.

“Depends,” he says, voice smooth and low, just above the hush of the waves. “You always open with interrogation, or is this a special occasion?” His eyes flick to the cigarette, then up to Mateo’s face again, lingering. “I mean, I was here for the view…” A pause, followed by just the hint of a smirk. “But now, it's just got interesting.”

He doesn’t grin—not quite. Just the ghost of one sits at the corner of his mouth, like a song he isn’t ready to play all the way through yet. Then he takes a sip of his drink, still watching Mateo over the rim of the glass. “You got a name, or should I just keep calling you Trouble in my head?”

The tidying was an opportunity to get away from the bar where Javi seemed to focus. Hearing people flirt with him and the way he'd respond made Britt's skin feel hot. It'd been fleeting with him, like always for her, yet she'd still wanted to make a claim known. Mainly because it was too close to the particular way he used to speak to her, the way he used to flirt with her, and a bitterness coated her tongue as her lips practically snarled at the ease in which he carried on.

When he spoke to her and it wasn't something about work and work alone Britt stopped what she was doing and looked over at Javi. A response was ready to fly, but that little hitch, that few seconds pause, had demolished the moment. Her question on if he'd heard the plot died before it could ever be released due to the verbal haymaker he threw next.

He looks up at her finally, and there’s a quiet fire in his eyes—anger, sure, but not the cheap kind. It’s the slow-burning ember built from too many long shifts, too many words left unsaid, and too many damn nights spent trying not to remember how she used to fit so damn perfectly beside him. “You really think I’m that bored, Britt?” he questions, voice low but steady, like a match that's just been lit. “You think I’m just standing here drying glasses for a living, minding my own business for three months, just waiting for my chance to pick a fight with you?”

He lets out a dry, humorless laugh before shaking his head, looking down like maybe it’ll keep the rest of his argument from seeping out. It doesn’t.

“You’re the one who ran away when shit got too real. Sabotaged it. Bit by bit. Like we were some damn game of Jenga, you just couldn’t wait to see how fast it'd fall.” His tone isn’t raised—if anything, it’s quieter now, rougher. “I didn’t forget, Britt. I remember all of it. You pulling away. You shutting down. You making it so hard for anyone to stay, then acting shocked when they leave.”

He steps out from behind the bar now, closing the distance between them just enough to lower his voice, to make sure this part is only heard between them.

“And yeah… maybe you were too fucked up for me to deal with. But that never stopped me from trying, did it?” His brows pull together for a second, something softer flickering beneath them before it gets snuffed out by more frustration. “It never stopped me from giving a damn about you.”

A pause stretches between them then. “So, don't rewrite the story now like I’m the one playing games. You got what you wanted. Me finally walking away.”

Today she had lots of work to do with young Tuck, a stunning buckskin that had the makings of being a top cutting horse. She had the two year old cross-tied in the barn while she brushed and prepped him for the day ahead. A soft song was slipping past her lips, Filipino words she'd learned from her mother, just for herself and Tuck when she'd heard the noise of someone coming in.

A glance made her stomach flip and something even further south lurch at the sight of him in his dirty jeans and fitted shirt. Javier. The man had a unique effect on her, a pull, something strong enough to indulge in the carnality of him for more than a decade. He'd been there when she needed him and gone when she didn't.

"That was a foolish thought." Not because this was her ranch but someone had to work the horses. It was how they made money. "Sounds more like a hope, though," she tacked on, tone very casual despite the edge of the knife he seemed to be riding on.

A little laugh escaped her and Lana fully turned to Javi then, bright smile on her lips as she tossed the brush into the tack box. "Like everything else around here?" Brow raised in too much amusement. What was he so pissy about? "Something on your mind, darlin'?" Then with a wink, Lana added fuel to the fire, "you know I like a straight shooter."

After rounding the front of the horse, one arm hugging his strong neck and her dipping under his head, Lana went for a hoof pick in the tack box. Tuck was picking up on the tension being flung their way, they were very sensitive animals in that regard, and he shifted his four hooves around.

"Would you mind chilling out or maybe stepping out for a breather?" Lana looked at Javi again, while one hand stroked down Tuck's neck. "You're making this young boy antsy."

Confusion spread across her features the moment Javi said something about hovering, and she soon shook her head. "I'm grooming and saddling and then I'll be out of here. I was also in here first so... how exactly am I hovering, Jav?" Then she took a couple of steps closer to him, and each step seemed to remind her of the heat they shared. It'd been a while since either have them been in either of their beds. "You know your way around here. You need something out of the shed then get it. But... what are you so pissy about?"

“You think this is me pissy?” he mutters, voice low but, bitter. “Damn, Lana. Maybe I’m just tired. Tired of driving out to the ass-end of nowhere to patch something up, you probably won’t even notice has been fixed. Tired of acting like we don’t have a history every time we end up in the same damn room. Or in this case, same damn barn.”

He kicks a rock out of his path, slow and deliberate, like he’s working to stay grounded despite the outburst. The heat, the silence between them, the smell of dust and horses and her—it’s all getting under his skin in that slow, familiar way it always does.

His gaze finally cuts to hers, and it’s sharp. Measured. Controlled only because he knows if he lets it loose, it’ll turn into something too messy to wrangle back in again.

“You pop in and out of my life like it’s some kind of revolving door. I don’t get a heads-up, I don’t get closure—hell, half the time I don’t even get a goddamn goodbye. Just you... gone. Then suddenly, you’re back at my door. Still looking like sin in boots. Still acting like nothing happened. And I’m just supposed to fix you and this porch while I smile and pretend like we didn’t just burn half the sheets at my place the last time you vanished without a word.”

His voice softens, just barely, as if a gust of wind could knock it over. “You always make it seem like I’m the one who needs to get over it or let it go. But it’s YOU who keeps coming back after I've just learned how to get over you.”

Javi takes a step toward her then—just one. Close enough to smell the citrus shampoo he’d once teased her about, close enough to remember how she used to tuck her face into his neck when the world got too heavy for her to bear.

“You say you wanna know what’s on my mind?” He tilts his head, lips twitching—not quite a smile, not quite not. “Well, maybe I’m just wondering how many more times you think I’m gonna let you use me before I finally wise up.” Though, maybe he already has.

Because he turns just then, not waiting on her answer as he stalks toward the side shed as promised, pulling a pair of gloves from his back pocket like it’s the only thing in the world right now demanding his attention.

“Don’t worry I’ll get what I need,” he mutters. “Won’t bother your horse. Or you.”