ON THE LOW ROAD

Coming to the Rusty Spur on a Thursday night probably wasn't the brightest idea the deaf yoga instructor had had lately. Thursday was very clearly the new Friday, and the country bar was packed to the brim. She had to weave her way through the chaos, shoulder to shoulder with strangers in boots and flannel. The din of the crowd so loud it made even hearing the country twang that played over the loud speakers inaudible for the brunette. She was scanning the sea of bodies for an empty table when she cut around a corner and walked straight into the path of a dart board she hadn’t noticed.

She didn’t hear the sharp warning from somewhere behind her, only the muted shuffle of boots and laughter. What she did notice was the sudden thunk against her glass. She froze, staring down at the offending dart now sticking out of her drink like a bizarre garnish. Lifting it out by the tail, she turned toward the general direction it had come from, one brow arched. “…Not sure if I should offer to buy you a drink or ask if I’m next.”

He pushes off the table, boots thudding against the worn floorboards as he makes his way toward her. Up close, he notices the way she’s holding the glass—steady, but curious. Her voice is calm, maybe even a little teasing. That eyebrow raise? Sharp enough to cut.

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Shit,” he says, offering a lopsided half-grin. “If I’d known the drink was gonna be collateral, I would’ve aimed better.”

He nods toward the ruined glass. “I’ll get you another one. Promise this time it won’t come with a souvenir.”

Then, after a beat, “You okay?”

Shaking her head, Addie smiled as she thought back to her years travelling the world. "Oh never, it was the best thing I've ever done. It's a miracle I ever shut up about it, honestly. I wouldn't be here if I hadn't gone away, it gave me the confidence to really take hold of my life, you know?" So much of her life had been dictated to her or decided for her and the second she booked her first flight, she had taken back control. "I even learned to surf, after I broke my nose once."

As he moved closer to her, Addie stepped over and wrapped her arm around his waist, giving him a quick squeeze. She had left so much of her life behind when she left town and even though her and Travis had kept in touch, nothing felt like being truly reunited. "Waiting for you to put it up, obviously. I might be a woman of the world, but there's no way I'm trusting myself to build it and it stay standing."

As they began walking back down the drive, Addie wrapped her arm back around his waist to walk with him. "I'm the history teacher, I'm already a nerd. I'm sure my reputation can withstand one outing with a dinosaur, they'll think it's community service." Laughing softly, Addie glanced up at him with a fond smile on her face. "Are you sure you're allowed to be seen with me? Aren't you breaking bro code or something like that?"

Then he glances down at her, one brow arched, lips quirking into something that’s not quite a smile but carries just as much meaning.

"AddieBee," he says, his voice lower now, not teasing, "I’ve been breakin’ that particular code since the day Shane let you walk away."

He doesn’t stop walking, but his arm comes up and settles across her shoulders without hesitation, pulling her in a little tighter as they stroll. There’s no grand gesture, no dramatics—just quiet, unshakable honesty.

"Truth is," he continues, eyes fixed ahead, watching the golden light catch on the fence line and the dust kicked up by their steps, "We're friends, you and I. I wouldn't consider that a crime. Besides, our bro code doesn't come with fine print for situations like this. So, I've got no choice but to wing it. And I'm sure, he wouldn't be too upset. Might even be grateful, I've looked after you all these years."

He glances back at her then, more direct this time, his expression soft but unflinching. “I remember what you were like before all that stuff happened. And after. I remember the way you lit up a room without even tryin’, and how you stopped doin’ that after you left. And I know I ain't got a leg to stand on when it comes to who you were to him—but I know who you were to me. Who you are to me. And you're special.”

There’s something vulnerable in his voice, like he’s balancing on the edge of saying too much. But he pushes forward anyway, the way he always does when something matters. "So no," he says finally, shrugging with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes yet, "I’m not worried about some unspoken guy rule Shane and I probably forgot we made up years ago when we bled on the same knife and decided that made us brothers. I’m more worried about makin’ sure the folks who stuck around get the chance to remind you, you still belong here. And that you never stopped matterin’ to some of us. Especially, me.”

They reach the edge of the driveway now, the Parker home just visible through the trees. He stops there, turning slightly to face her again, the last of the sun catching in his hair and throwing long shadows behind them.

"And hey," he adds, lighter now, a crooked grin tugging back into place. He nudges her side gently, that warmth back in his eyes, familiar and a little mischievous. “… if bein’ seen with you is against the rules, well…” He tips his head, thoughtful. “Guess I’ve never been real good at followin’ ‘em anyway.”

SEX AND THE CITY (1998-2004)

Not the kiss — not quite — but the shift. The way his stance changed. The way his voice dropped like gravel in a glass, no edge, just weight. She knew that version of him. Even if she’d never been the one close enough to touch it before.

And when he stepped in—gloves off, walls down, hands warm and rough and real on either side of her face—she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t melt, either.

She met him.

Mouth parting, pulse kicking up — not in shock, but in recognition. Like something dormant had just snapped to life. Like the heat between them had been building for years in silence, and all it needed was that spark. That opening. That look.

And the kiss? It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was hot and hard and laced with everything they hadn’t said. Everything they hadn’t let themselves say.

It was a collision.

And she let it be.

Let it happen. Let it burn.

Her hands didn’t go to him right away — they hovered for a breath at his sides, knuckles brushing the sweat-warmed fabric of his shirt like she was deciding: pull him closer, or push him back?

Then she fisted the fabric.

Gripped it tight like it grounded her. Like he did.

And she kissed him like she’d waited years to get this close. Like she'd watched him from across gym mats and from the shadow of her brother’s shoulder. Like she remembered every damn second of him looking through her. Like now? Now he saw her. And she wasn’t going to be ignored again.

She kissed him with control. With intent. With the kind of heat that builds behind sparring eyes and clenched jaws and nights wondering what his hands would feel like if they weren’t wearing gloves.

And when she finally pulled back — barely, lips still brushing his — her breath caught hard in her throat. Not from fear. Not from surprise.

Just… truth.

“You really think you’re the only one who lost shit?” she said, voice low, wrecked at the edges. But steady. “I watched my whole life turn into something I didn’t recognize — and I still got up. Still threw the next punch.”

Her fingers curled tighter in his shirt, dragging just slightly — not by accident.

“So no. I’m not sparring with a memory,” she whispered, eyes flicking to his. “And I’m not kissing you like I’ve still got something to prove.”

A beat passed, and then another. Her gaze didn’t break. And slowly — deliberately — she stepped back.

Not to run. Not to retreat.

To reset.

To dare him.

“You want to keep fighting?” she asked, rolling her shoulders loose again. Her breath was still uneven. Her lips swollen from the contact. Her eyes blazing. “Or you want to stop pretending that’s what we’re still doing?”

He doesn’t move or say anything at first. He just looks at her — the way he should’ve and maybe he had, years ago. The fire in her eyes doesn’t scare him. It never did. In fact, it now calls to him. Dares him. Pulls something from deep from his chest that, he’s spent so long trying to bury.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t reach for control. He just lets the moment between then burn.

“I never thought you had something to prove,” he says, voice low, and rough around the edges. “Not to me, anyway.” His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, his fingertips brushing the curve of her jaw, like he’s still grounding himself in the fact that she’s here. She hasn't run, when she very well could have. That this — whatever this is — just happened. Is happening.

“You hit harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. In the ring, that is — but out of it?” His thumb grazes the corner of her mouth, his gaze never wavering. “You always back it up like it’s a damn reflex for you. Like losing doesn’t mean bleeding. It just means fighting smarter. I admire that.” A breath. He steps in, not all the way, but just enough that their shadows overlap again. “So no. I don’t want to keep pretending. Not about what this is. Even if I don't know what the hell that is.”

He pauses, his jaw tight, eyes a bit softer now — but no less intense. “Although, if you still want to fight me,” he adds, a ghost of a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, “just know I’m not holding back anymore. If that last move,” meaning the kiss "wasn't already obvious."

Afterwards, he leans in again — not for another kiss, not yet. But, for the space between. For the tension. For the dare. He almost wanted to see if she would be bold enough to go for it herself this time. And if or when she did, there'd be no stopping whatever comes next.

It was her move.

Her hand, freshly bandaged rests lightly at her side as he stands. Her fingers twitch, begging to reach for him but haven't been given the all clear from her heart. Not yet. Morgan swallows once before parting her lips. "You think I haven't carried heavy, Travis?" The words brought her back to her childhood, living with a mother that went through partners. Consistency had never been a staple of her childhood. "I've spent fifteen years being taught how to bear the weight of a man that picks himself apart before I ever get the chance to hold what's left."

Morgan's voice isn't angry. Not even bitter. "I have wanted to walk." So many goddamn times. And then there was the time that she did walk, for an entire week. "When you disappear, leaving me with nothing but whiskey and ghosts. When I forget what 's like to be chosen by you."

Her feet inch her closer, but she doesn't touch him. Not yet. Morgan stayed through it all. Through silence and slammed doors. Through nights slept on the couch because their bed felt too empty without him. "Then don't do it halfway anymore." Morgan sure as hell couldn't live with the half in, half out, being clung to only when he felt himself slipping.

Lifting her hand, it lands on his chest and rests over where his heart beats. "I don't need you to be perfect, Travis. I have never needed you to be perfect." Morgan was far from it herself. She didn't grow up in a life that showed her what perfect could look like. All she knew were messes and people leaving her. "I'm not going to walk, Travis. Not now. Not ever." Her words are soft, a promise filling the space between them. @travmarshall

His eyes flick to hers, searching, not for lies but for some version of the truth he hasn’t already heard before and twisted up in his head. “I hear you,” he reassures her, voice barely above a murmur now. “I do. And I want to believe that.”

He steps back—not far, but enough to break the contact. Enough to put an inch of breathing room between her hand and his heart. “But how many times have we been here, Morgan?” His jaw tightens, the ache behind his eyes sharper than he wants to admit. “Right in this exact spot. One of us bleeding and the other swearing it’ll be different this time.”

He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to steady the shaking inside. “I’ve wanted to stay. So many times. I’ve tried to stay. And every damn time, it’s like we just... break a little bit more.”

His voice cracks, just slightly. “It’s not that I don’t love you. You know, I do. That’s never been the problem.” He lifts his head, eyes meeting hers again—tired, but still holding that piece of him that never let her go. He loves her but, is he in love with her? That's the question.... “But simply loving you hasn’t been enough to make this work. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

He lets out a bitter half-laugh, not cruel, just defeated. “I used to think if I loved you hard enough, I could outrun the parts of me that always ruin everything. Turns out they can sprint too.”

He looks away, swallowing hard. “You say you won’t walk. And maybe you won’t. Maybe this time is different. But if I step back into this, I’m not just risking me anymore. I’m risking you. And Sadie. And the little bit of peace we’ve somehow managed to build from the rubble.”

His eyes come back to her, softer now, but no less broken. “So yeah, I want to stay. But wanting doesn’t mean I should. And, if we're both honest with ourselves, you deserve better than that.” Yet despite this revelation, he still has a hard time letting go. Because the reality of doing so makes him sick to his stomach when he thinks about the possibility of her moving on. Of her finding happiness with someone, who could actually give it to her.

“You always did favor the dodge,” she said evenly, not accusing, just observing. “Guess some things don’t change.”

Her eyes tracked him as he started to circle — and it wasn’t the first time she’d watched him do it. She remembered that rhythm from a distance. From years back. From the bleachers or the doorway of this gym, where her brother used to spar and Travis always stood a little sharper. A little more controlled. She’d never admitted she noticed. She didn’t have to now.

When he tapped her arm — that light correction, familiar and practiced — her gaze followed the gesture, then lifted back to his face with a quiet, unreadable look. Not startled. Just… present. Like she’d expected it before he made the choice to do it.

“You’re still narrating,” she murmured, tone dry but not cold. “I used to think it was just for show. Now I’m starting to think you really can’t help yourself.”

She didn’t retreat when he stepped in. Just mirrored the space, a quiet echo, grounded and calm. She didn’t need to make it obvious she knew how close he was. That knowledge was already built into the angle of her shoulders, the way her breath held steady despite the subtle pull in the air between them.

And when he dropped his guard — that invitation, deliberate and cocky in its own quiet way — she didn’t jump to fill it. Not right away.

Instead, she moved with purpose. A feint low, sharp and quick. A second motion layered behind it — tighter, more precise, designed to test him, not catch him. She wasn’t here to land hits she hadn’t earned.

As she slid back into her stance, there was a flicker of something in her expression. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just a shift. Like the weight of memory had brushed her shoulder on the way past.

“I’m not the kid watching from the wall anymore,” she said, soft but clear. “And you’re not just a name I used to hear my brother yell over the ring.”

She looked at him fully now — not just as someone she’d known, but as someone she was sizing up for herself.

“So let’s stop pretending this is still old ground,” she added, hands steady, chin lifted just enough to spark. “Show me what’s changed.”

And present is dangerous.

“That’s the thing about old ground,” he says lowly, still circling, but slower now. “You think you’ve moved on from it… and then you feel it under your boots again. Same dirt. Same ghosts. Different stakes.”

She moves with precision, and he doesn’t miss a single bit of it. The shift in her weight. The discipline tucked behind the feint. It’s not just training. It’s intention. It’s confidence without needing to flash it. The kind that’s earned, not handed out. And hell, does he like it.

“You’re right though,” he admits, dragging a hand across his jaw, thoughtful and measured now. “You’re not that kid anymore. And I’d be an idiot to treat you like someone still figuring out how to throw a punch.”

He steps in again—not with bravado this time, but with something heavier. Slower. Like he’s not just stepping into her space… but into the truth that she’s right. They’re not who they were. And maybe they never really were those people to begin with—just pieces shaped by what they couldn’t say back then.

“But don’t kid yourself,” he adds, tone dipped in that low, gravel-warm cadence that always shows up when he’s not playing games anymore. “You think I’ve stayed still all these years? You think you’re the only one who changed while the rest of us just froze in time? Look at me, El. I'm a fuckin' mess. My life's a fuckin' mess.”

He eases back into stance, but his gaze never leaves hers. It can't. It's almost like he's mesmerized by her. In a way, he definitely shouldn't be.

“But you wanna know what's different for me now, Elena?” His voice softens—not from weakness, but from honesty. The kind of honesty that comes only when the sweat’s started to rise and the walls are too tired to hold up anymore. “I used to fight to prove I had something worth losing. Now… I just fight ‘cause I already lost too damn much and it's all I really can do. Well that, and fuck shit up.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough to carry weight. “I won’t waste time pretending we’re still sparring with what we used to be. You want this—right now, the part of me that's changed? Then fine, you've got it." He takes a step back, removes his gloves. Until they're both off, physically and metaphorically. And then, without thinking about it, he does the one thing he knows he probably shouldn’t in the moment. The one thing, he should think better of. He steps forward, takes her face into his hands and kisses her. Hard. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test. It’s something hot and inevitable. Something that crashes through the space between them like it’s always been waiting there to explode—buried beneath emotional bruises (on his end) and banter (on both of theirs) and all the years they may have pretended they didn’t see each other this way.

Her chest rises steadily as he stands before her, his words breaking into the space between them and seemingly making it bigger. They were both hurting, both drowning in a sea that they created for themselves. "I wake up every morning wondering if this is the day things fall apart for good, Travis." Her gaze is steady as he kneels before her and she doesn't pull her hand away. "I've never needed perfect." Never truly wanted it. She wouldn't know what it looked like if it slapped her in the face.

"What would make me happy?" She echoes, looking at him fully. There is a vulnerability exposed as she does. Morgan doesn't know how she's still managing to stand on her own two feet in front of him. "For starters, you showing up. And not just when you're scared of losing us." Marrying me, but she didn't let the words fall from her lips. She couldn't beg for that. Couldn't. "I want you to stay, Travis." @travmarshall

Her words—I want you to stay—hit him hard. It's the kind of hit he used to take on the field, where the wind leaves his lungs and the lights blur and nothing feels real for a second. But this is real. Has been for a long damn time. That’s the problem.

He lets out a breath, low and shaky, his fingers brushing against hers now—not by accident this time. It's a deliberate choice on his part. The kind that matters.

“I’ve wanted to stay, Morgan,” he says finally, voice rough. “More times than I can count. But every time I try… something breaks. You, me, the damn ceiling above our heads.”

He looks up at her then, eyes searching, the way a man does when he’s looking for a lifeline in someone who’s already tired of throwing them to him. “I don’t know how to be what you need. Not all the way. Not the version of me that doesn’t carry this weight around like it’s welded to my ribs. Fuck!”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, he looks older than he is. Worn thin by all the years of almosts and never-enoughs. “I keep showing up when I’m scared of losing you because that’s when I realize what the hell I’ve got. But then I mess it up again. I pull away. Or I shut down. Or I drown myself in a bottle and pretend it’s just the tide taking me out.”

He stands slowly, like the air’s heavier around him. The gauze is wrapped around her hand now, neat and snug, like maybe he knows how to fix small things even if the bigger ones are too far gone. “I know I’ve given you a thousand reasons to walk,” he says. “And maybe only a few to stay. I know I’m not easy to love, and I damn sure haven’t made it easy for you to trust me.”

His voice drops to something barely above a whisper. “But I love you. In all the ways I’m probably bad at showing. In all the ways that scare the shit out of me. And I’m tired, too. Tired of circling the same damn drain for fifteen years and pretending it’s not killing us both.”

He steps a little closer. One hand hovering at her waist, not touching yet, like he needs permission. Like he knows she’s the only thing that can grant it. “You want me to stay?” he asks, not as a challenge, but almost like he’s testing if he even deserves to ask the question. “Then tell me how. Because I don’t want to keep surviving us—I want to find a way to live in this, with you. For real this time. But I can’t do it halfway anymore.” He pauses, voice hoarse. “And I need to know that you won’t walk the second I get too heavy to carry. Because, I can tell you've wanted to. Hell, you still might.”

“‘Thirst is a spectrum,’” he echoed, chin tilting like he was impressed. “That’s either the most philosophical thing I’ve heard all week or the best excuse for flirting I’ve ever been handed.” He paused, let the tension hang in the air for a half-second, then gave a soft laugh and dragged a hand through his damp curls, still mussed from the ocean. “Not that I’m complaining.”

But as Travis kept going, layering in observations that cut a little too close to the bone for someone Jordan had only just met, his posture shifted slightly. Still relaxed, still casual, but there was a glint behind his eyes now. Not defensive, exactly. Just… alert. Like someone who wasn’t used to being read so clearly.

“You’re good,” he said finally, leaning back and kicking one leg out under the bar. “Dangerously good, actually. Like, maybe-I-shouldn’t-have-sat-next-to-you good.” He tossed a glance down the bar, where the bartender still hadn’t made his way back. “Next thing you’ll tell me what my favorite coping mechanism is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. If anything, it was strangely easy. Jordan let his gaze swing around the room once, more so for something to do than anything else — or to find somewhere else to look for a moment.

“I’ve been back a couple weeks,” he admitted. “Surfboard came home first. Figured maybe if I watched it long enough, the rest of me would follow.” A faint smirk. “Not sure it has.”

His eyes met Travis’s again, steady this time. Unflinching. “I’m here. For now. Laying low, maybe. Or maybe just trying to figure out what the hell comes next when the next big thing doesn’t hit like it used to.”

He tapped his fingers a few times against the bar top. “And if I end up unraveling a little while I’m at it… well. Golden Hour’s got good lighting for that, doesn’t it?”

Beat.

“But I’ll keep the Rusty Spur in mind. If I need something a little louder.” A pause, then a grin as he pantomimed lifting a glass he didn't have. “To the floaters. And the ones who haven’t figured out how to stay put.”

“Dangerously good, huh?” he says, scratching at the stubble along his jaw with the back of his knuckles. “I’ll put that on my résumé. Right under ‘expert at bad timing and disappearing acts.’ If you know, you know.”

He leans forward, elbows on the bar now, bottle cradled between his hands as if he’s warming it like coffee. His gaze settles on Jordan again, measuring but not unkind. There’s something about this guy—this mixture of charm and fracture that feels familiar in a way Travis isn’t sure he wants to admit.

“But hey,” he adds, “credit where it’s due my friend—you don’t flinch easy. Most people hear half of what I said and start checking for exits. They can't handle the truth.” Not that he really could either but alas.

He lets that hang for a second, then smirks faintly, like he’s weighing whether to say the next thing. Eventually, he does. Because he's Travis and why the hell not?

“Coping mechanisms, though?” he shrugs. “Hell, I wouldn’t have to guess. We all got the same drawer—we just organize the contents differently. Some reach for a bottle. Some get wet and try to out-surf their own ghosts.” He taps the side of his bottle twice. “Spoiler alert: waves don’t give a damn about what’s chasing you. But you already knew that, I'm sure.”

Another beat. Then he softens, just slightly—an edge rounded off in his voice, the kind that happens when two people recognize the same ache in each other, even if they don’t say it out loud.

“Golden Hour’s good for unraveling, sure. Just don’t forget to stitch something back up on the way out. Otherwise, it’s just bleeding in a prettier room. Life advice. First one's always free.”

He raises his bottle then, meeting Jordan’s pantomimed toast. “To the floaters,” he echoes. “And the ones still trying to swim toward something solid—even if they don’t know where the hell that is yet.”

After a beat, Trav lets out a quiet breath, something resembling a chuckle but without the sound. “There it is,” he says finally, eyes flicking from the bag back to her face. “That’s the difference between swinging wild and showing up.” The way she repeats his words back to herself doesn’t go unnoticed to him. It’s not performative. It’s lived-in. Travis knows what it means to fight for control when all you’ve ever known is the spiral. “New ain’t bad. Just means you’re learning. Hell, I’d take new over numb any day.” He shifts his weight this time, arms folding across his chest, the soft squeak of his boots grounding him in their shared space.

When she lands that grin—sharp and bright, and a little bit reckless, it catches him off guard. Not because of the tease, but because it feels earned. Like she’s starting to come back to herself. He huffs out a dry laugh at the thought, shaking his head. “Careful?” he echoes, a grin now tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’m the one standing in front of the bag, remember? I should be worried about your ego and my ribs.” He steps back slightly, giving her room, nodding toward the bag like he’s inviting her to hit it again if she wants to. In the meantime, he grabs the towel slung over a nearby hook and tosses it her way. “Here. Before you start bleeding all over the mat and I gotta explain it to the boss.” There’s a lightness to his tone now, but his eyes linger on her a beat longer than they should—measuring, maybe. Or perhaps, just seeing her.

He drops down onto a nearby bench just then, stretching out his legs with a wince before releasing a quiet sigh. “You ever notice how hittin' something can make the silence feel louder after? Like, your body’s fine but your brain’s still catching up.”

He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck before glancing up at her again. “Ah sorry, that sounded more profound in my head. Probably just the dehydration talkin’.” A small smirk creeps in again, yet it fades just enough for something else to surface too—curiosity, maybe? or the kind of recognition that only comes when pain meets pain.

Leyla caught the towel mid-air, the motion clean and well practised like she'd done it a hundred times before in another life. She let his words sink in, her eyes flicking over to him when he spoke about numb and new, about the silence after the noise, something sharp in her gaze softening for just a second. She let out a breath that almost felt similar to a laugh, but it came out quieter. "Yeah," she said finally, rolling the towel between her hands. "Like.. your body's waiting for the next hit, even when it's done. Brain doesn't trust the quiet just yet?" Felt similar to life, really.. the way she'd felt about it, anyway. Always quietly waiting for the next blow, and in a state of defence in the meantime. She moved to sit by him now, quietly catching her breath for a moment before continuing. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" She liked talking to Travis. He was one of, if not the most honest people she'd ever met. And that kind of honesty made her feel safe. LIke she wasn't having to brace herself for the worst. "Thanks, by the way. For the boxing tips," she grins, glancing over to him. "And the chat."

That tone when he said her name again—slower this time, deliberate—pressed into her like the heel of a glove against skin. Familiar. Undeniable. And far too easy to remember.

Her eyes didn’t leave his, even when her jaw shifted like she was biting back the reflex to smile. Or maybe scoff. Hard to tell with her.

“I pay attention,” she said quietly, deliberately. “More than you think.”

She watched him step forward and held her ground, letting him come just close enough to test the edge of it. The warmth between them wasn’t just physical now — it was something older, slower, and dangerously close to personal. But she didn’t flinch.

Her gaze flicked down briefly as he nodded at her bare feet, a dry breath of a laugh slipping from her nose. “Half-armored still beats fully distracted,” she shot back, smooth and even, a little smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. “You sure you’re not already off your game?”

But it was the next thing he said — low, precise, too honest to be playful — that gave her the briefest pause.

Let’s not pretend this is just about the fight.

Something in her chest pulled tight, then steadied. And when she looked at him again, something had shifted behind her eyes.

“I didn’t come back for you,” she said. The words came calm, even — like a fact. “But I didn’t come despite you either.”

And there it was: not a confession, not an admission. Just truth.

She took one step back, enough space to find her footing. Then another as she lifted her hands — no ceremony, no dramatic lead-in. Just Elena settling into stance, weight even, focus clean.

But as she met his eyes again, there was heat now. Not just from the gym or the fight about to start — but from the way he’d looked at her like he knew something.

She rolled her neck once, then cracked her knuckles into her palms.

“You want me to show you?” she asked, tilting her chin up. “Fine.”

Then, with no warning at all, she moved — clean, fast, a jab meant more to test than hurt, a shot just left of center, enough to make him react.

“Pay attention, Travis,” she muttered as she moved, smirk flashing.

“You’re not the only one who hits harder than they used to.”

And more importantly, how she moved.

The second her fist cuts through air, his grin grows — slow and wolfish, like it’s built of both admiration and challenge intermixed. He’s not just impressed. He’s interested.

“Well hell,” he mutters, stepping into a slow circle around her, eyes sharp but far from cold. “That the warm-up, or did you come out here swingin’ just to make sure I remembered what you’re made of?”

He keeps his hands loose, body coiled with control, but he doesn’t strike — not yet. He’s too busy watching her. Every shift of her stance, every flick of her gorgeous eyes. There’s tension between them, sure, but it’s not the combat kind anymore. Not really. It’s something far more dangerous: familiarity re-forged in fire and just enough flirtation to light a wick.

“Not bad,” he adds, teasing now, voice low and threaded with heat. “But I gotta admit — I was almost hopin’ you’d land that one. Would’ve given me a reason to return the favor… become more hands-on.”

His smile turns sideways as he steps closer again — just a beat inside her range, but not threatening. Instead, he lifts a hand and gently taps two fingers against the side of her arm. It's a feather-light form of contact where a glove might have landed.

“Right there. Wide open.” He raises an eyebrow. “You used to lead with your shoulder more. Lost that edge somewhere between Charlotte and wherever the hell else you ran off to?” There’s no accusation in his voice, just a flicker of something warm under the sarcasm— like he’s glad she went out into the world and even more glad she came back.

Then, with a smirk playing tug-of-war with the corner of his mouth, he drops his guard slightly. Just a fraction. Enough to give her a clear shot. “But hey,” he shrugs, mock-casual, “I’m not above takin’ a hit or two. Especially if you’re offerin’ the kind that come with a view like this.”

He winks, and it’s shameless — because of course it is — but there’s affection behind it, genuine and unfiltered. This isn’t just Travis putting on a show. It’s Travis remembering what it feels like to laugh with her. To tease her and mean it. To spar in more ways than one.

“You done testin’ my reflexes yet, or should I keep lettin’ you miss just so you’ll keep flirtin’ with me under the guise of aggression? I mean,” his voice dips, just for her now, “I could take a few more shots… if that’s the only way you’re brave enough to touch me these days.” The look in his eyes says it plainly: the fight was never the dangerous part. She is.

"I mean, is she wrong? You really do have that T-Rex look going for you." Nodding, Addie tried not to look around too much as she walked closer to her old friend. "Well, sometimes this place just calls to you. Besides, I'm pretty sure I could only get away with saying that for so long before you dragged me back here, commanded by my grandmother, of course."

It was strange really, how strange it felt to be standing with Travis, in the same spot they had stood so many times but now to be so different. In a way, it felt like she was eighteen again, but there she was, in a newly thirty eight year old's body. "Well thank you. That's what you get when you risk your relationship with your family, travel the world and then shun the family business." She chuckled once, brushing her hair back with her hand as the breeze blew threw it. "I think it's pretty safe to say we've both lived a lot, huh?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly at his joke but she couldn't stay annoyed for long. She would've met with Travis eventually, but it had been a risk coming to the ranch. "That's enough of that, thank you. I'm good without that walk down memory lane." She had seen him once already, a quick 'hello' and 'goodbye' in the town centre a few weeks ago, not long after she had moved back and for now, that was more than enough.

"You haven't been holding me to them well, have you?" She'd been in town here and there over the years to see her grandparents and check in on them, but she had never stuck around for long enough. As much as she'd wanted to see her friends, it hadn't been worth the risk when she was younger. "Well hold onto something for this one, I'm actually back for good." Shrugging her shoulders, her smile finally came through again. "I'm the new history teacher at our old high school, so you're going to be seeing a whole lot more of me. I got a cute little cottage downtown, so yeah, I'm officially a Briar Ridge resident again."

“Well damn,” he says, stepping back just slightly to give her a once-over again, this time with more reverence than teasing. “AddieBee Liang, local schoolteacher and full-time townie again. Never thought I’d see the day.”

He gestures toward the old Silver Creek barn behind him with a mock flourish. “Look at us—livin’ out the small-town clichés like we’re on some damn Hallmark special. You, teachin’ history in the same halls we used to get detention in, and me, still patchin’ up fences and talkin’ to cows like they’re coworkers.” Which, they very well might be.

He chuckles at that, a low, genuine sound, before letting the levity settle into something quieter. Something closer to the weight of what her being here really means. “But hey,” he adds, voice dipping slightly, more serious now, “I’m real glad you’re back, Addie. I mean that. And whether or not, you hear it from anyone else” —meaning the elephant in the room— "I think I can speak for more than just me when I say that sentiment stretches far and wide."

His gaze lingers, steady and open, like he’s not just talking about her being back in town—but back in his orbit. Back in a way that feels like it matters more than either of them might’ve expected.

“History teacher though, huh?” He nods, a teasing glint returning to his eyes. “Guess that tracks. You always were the smart one. Guess we’re lucky Sadie’s got someone decent to teach her when she finally gets to you. She’s not quite there yet, but it'll sneak up on me in no time. Right now, she says elementary school is exhausting, which is rich comin’ from someone who’s never worked a day in her life, even doin' basic chores.”

There’s something proud in his voice when he talks about Sadie. Soft. Protective. The same way he’s always talked about the people he loves. When he looks back at Addie, his smile turns crooked again. “And hey, don’t go talkin’ down all those travel years like they were wasted. World needed to see you a little. You were always too big for this town to hold you when we were younger. Hell, maybe you still are.”

He pauses just for a beat, letting the wind do some of the talking while he gauges her expression, the way the light catches her hair and the faint laugh lines around her eyes.

“But I gotta admit,” he adds, quieter now, more vulnerable, “feels kinda nice that the world’s seen you… and you still found your way back to us.”

His voice catches for half a second—just long enough for it to mean something—before he quickly clears his throat and nudges her shoulder playfully. “So this cottage of yours—does it have a porch swing, or are you waitin’ for me to come install one so you can properly sip your tea and judge the neighborhood?”

He shoots her a wink, then tips his head toward the driveway behind him. “C’mon, I’ll walk you back. Unless, of course, you're worried word might get out you were caught talkin’ to the town dinosaur. Can’t have your new students thinkin’ you hang around with the fossils. Won't earn you any cool points, just make you more of a nerd.”

Having the person he loved and trusted most in the world keep something from him had carved a ragged, gaping hole in his heart—and finding out his siblings had also kept things from him just tore it wider. It made him question whether he could trust anyone, even the few people he had actually let in.

Keeping his gaze on the axe still in the tree, he finally admitted. "They didn't talk, but Wes thought he saw her. And she confirmed it when they had their little heart to heart a couple weeks before the spring fling." The hurt bled into his voice, heavy and unmistakable. Everyone had been making decisions for him—deciding what he could or couldn’t handle. Taking the decision away from him.

He gave a dry chuckle at Travis’ comment about Nate and Holly—grateful, at least, for the brief moment of levity—then yanked the axe free. The thunk of wood splitting echoed through the quiet, but he didn’t swing again. Just let the axe dangle loosely in his grip.

“I spent years tryin’ to convince myself I could let it go. That not knowing where she was, or if she was okay, was just part of life now. I did it for Elijah. For the ranch. For them.” His jaw clenched. “Then I find out Wes saw her—and said nothin’.”

His throat worked as he tried to swallow the rising wave of grief, but his voice still cracked a little when he added, “You’re right. I would’ve gone after her. I would’ve chased down every fuckin' lead I could, even if it lead me to dead end after dead end. But at least I woulda been able to do somethin'.” His hand raked through his hair, frustrated. That had been the worst part of Sonny’s disappearance: the helplessness. Shane had always been the one to take action when people needed him. To be sidelined in the most devastating chapter of his life still haunted him. “But the choice on what to do? That choice got taken from me. Again.”

He paused, then spoke again—quieter this time. “And Holly... I get that she doesn’t need my permission. It ain’t about that. It’s about trust. She’s my sister. Nate’s my friend. They both lied. For a year. What does that say about what they think of me? About what they thought I’d do?”

A tired exhale escaped him. “I’ve spent my whole damn life trying to be the guy people could count on. The one who keeps his word when no one else does. But maybe I was foolin’ myself. Because when it counted… they didn’t trust me.”

He looked down at the axe in his hand, then back at Travis, eyes storm-dark but clearer now. “I’m not gonna pretend I’m not still pissed. Or that I’m ready to sit down for a family dinner and hash it all out like we’re on some after-school special. But…" He gave a short nod, subtle but real. "I hear you. And I appreciate the fact that you're the one tryin' to talk sense into me this time." His mouth quirked up with a smirk reserved for the kind of teasing only brothers could get away with.

“I ain’t gonna lie,” he starts, his voice rough with a kind of honesty that doesn’t come easy. “You sounded a whole lot like me there for a minute. Scary thought.”

The smirk that tugs at his mouth is faint, but it’s there—wry, tired, laced with something that looks a hell of a lot like respect.

“But you’re not wrong,” he says, nodding slightly. “It’s not about permissions or control. It’s about the people closest to you givin’ you the benefit of the doubt. Trustin’ you to handle the truth even if it’s messy. Even if it knocks you flat out. And I get it, man. You would’ve gone after Sonny. Of course you would’ve. And they knew that. Which is why they kept it to themselves.”

Travis scrapes a hand over his stubble, then looks back up, expression level. “But they don’t get to decide what kind of man you are or how you handle the cards you're dealt, Shane. You do. That’s the part they forgot. And yeah—maybe they thought they were protectin’ you, but that don’t make it right. They didn’t trust your heart to handle what your head’s been screaming for years. That’s a hard fuckin’ pill to swallow.”

His voice softens a little, but the steel underneath never leaves. “You’ve been carryin’ around too much for too long. For Elijah, for the ranch, for everyone who leaned on you and never once thought to ask how you were doin’. So if you’re pissed off now? Good. You should be. You earned that anger.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that fills with old memories and too many what-ifs. “But don’t let it close the door on you.” He shifts his weight and pushes off the tree, stepping closer, matching Shane’s stance without crowding him. “Don’t let their screw-ups be the reason you shut down. ‘Cause yeah, they lied. Yeah, it hurt. But if you start buildin’ walls up because of this, you’re just gonna end up stuck behind ‘em—alone. And that? That’s a damn lonely place to be. Trust me. I'd know.”

He tips his chin toward the axe, still hanging loose in Shane’s grip. “That tree didn’t deserve your wrath, but I get it. Better to swing at somethin’ solid than let all that breakin’ happen on the inside.” Then, more quietly, “But you don’t have to do it alone. Not now. Not ever with me standin' here.”

A beat passes, and then Travis smirks again, that same crooked edge returning. “And hey, if I’m the one talkin’ you off the ledge right now, then you must really be in a bad spot. I mean, I’m not exactly the poster child for emotional regulation.. Especially when it comes to relationships and family dynamics.”

He reaches out, gives the side of Shane’s arm a light, grounding slap. Not enough to sting—just enough to remind him someone’s still there. Still in his corner. “You don’t gotta forgive them today. Or even tomorrow. I'll defer the intervention idea of gatherin' around the campfire and singing kumbaya. But you don’t have to carry this shit around like it’s yours alone either.” He steps back, looking at the horizon for a moment, before glancing back at his brother.

“You got people who still believe in you. Me included. So whenever you’re ready to stop beatin’ up trees and maybe put some of that fire toward healin’... I’ll be here. Stubborn title intact. And then buy you a six pack. Because, y'know, yours could use a little work. For when you're finally ready to get back out there.”

This time, the smile isn’t just tired. It’s real. Playful. Honest. "Speakin' of, if it makes you feel any better. You can take pleasure in knowin' I set Wes up on a blind date. All thanks to Elijah for helpin' me sell it by callin' him a grump. Really man, you should've seen his face. He looked miserable, it was hysterical. Although, don't think for a second, you aren't next. Hell, it might even help you get your mind off you know who."

His question comes at her hard, fast but it's not what she is focused on. Truthfully, if not for the wad of paper towel clenched in her fist, she would have forgotten she was hurt with him standing right there. The stitches that held her heart together were bursting at the seam and that hurt more than the glass that sliced her hand. "You've been trying to breathe," she echoed the words, a shake of her head following. Morgan let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I'm glad you've got to go and try and remember what peace feels like while I'm trying to keep our daughter from thinking she did something wrong."

Morgan didn't raise her voice, kept her tone even-keeled with a clenched jaw even though Sadie wasn't home to hear them. Her heart went still as he spoke. Shane. That was a given. It was the words that that came after that. "An old friend." The words were repeated, voice flat as she searched his eyes. She knew him, inside and out. It wasn't an old friend. Not really. "You can stand in this house, our house and call her an old friend?" Morgan restrained, keeping anger from her voice. Anger would have been a hell of easier.

Her fingers tightened once more, unsure of how much tighter they could grip the blood soaked paper towel. "Right, tools." Had the switch in the schedule not occurred, she wondered when she would have even seen Travis again. "Sadie's at school." She said it, like the days he had not been home would have changed her schedule too.

Morgan lifted her hand, now taking the time to look at it since Travis had walked in the door. "Fine." She swallowed hard, holding her hand out, palm up. It was still bleeding, still raw. Like the pain from their last fight. Morgan stood there, not pulling back but she didn't move towards him either. She couldn't do the reaching. Not anymore. "You going to walk away again after you patch this up, Travis?" And she wasn't just referring to her hand.

He steps forward slowly, eyes flicking from the blood on her hand to the tension in her jaw. He hates seeing her like this. Hates knowing it’s because of him. And that he continues to play a part in the reason why her heart breaks.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” he says again finally, voice low. “And I didn’t come here to walk away either.”

His hands hover near hers before he gently takes the blood-soaked paper towel from her grip, careful not to brush skin. She looks like she might flinch if he does. He notices that. He notices everything, whether it seems like he does or not.

“She’s not just an old friend, you're right,” he admits after a breath, meeting her eyes. “But she’s not what you think either.” Frankly, he couldn't put into words what Allie was. She was more than an ex. But, not in a way where it threatened the already shaky foundation of their relationship. Not really. Not yet.

He doesn't expect that to fix anything though. Hell, it might make things worse. But he won’t lie to her. Not now. Not ever.

He grabs the first aid kit from the cabinet like muscle memory, like he hasn’t been gone as long as he has. His hands tremble a little, but not from the sight of the blood. It's because of her. The way she stands there like she’s holding herself together thread by thread—however, the thread’s wearing thin. Ready to snap and break.

“You think I haven’t been hurting too?” he says, quieter now, like the words weren’t meant to leave his chest. “I’ve been trying to breathe, yeah. Because lately, all I feel is as if I'm drowning. And I don’t know how to fix any of it without breaking even more.”

Travis kneels slightly so he can get a better look at her hand, working with gentle, practiced movements. He doesn’t look up this time when he speaks. “I don’t know how to stand here in front of you and pretend I haven't screwed up. That I'm not a fuckin' mess. But I’m here. And I’m not walking out that door unless you tell me to.”

He presses a fresh gauze pad to the wound, firm but careful. Then finally looks up. “I’ll patch this up, —You up— Morgan. Hand, heart—whatever the fuck you’ll let me touch. But then, what? What do you need? What would make you happy?” He wants to know because he cares, because he genuinely wants to make her happy. The only problem is... he's not sure the price or if he can pay it and keep paying it. For his sake, for hers, for Sadie's.....

“Sadie.” He says her name like it’s got weight to it. “Got caught fighting too. Didn’t throw any punches this time—far as she tells it—but she sure as hell finished it with some words. I guess some girl called her a name and she put her foot down.”

His jaw clenches for a second, and he lifts his hand like he’s going to run it through his hair, but halfway there he drops it. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, mirroring Emil without meaning to.

“Principal said the other girl wouldn't stop crying and felt bullied. I told Sadie she can’t go around talkin' like that. She told me if she didn’t stand up for herself though, no one would. And then she just—” he makes a vague, sharp gesture with his hand “—shut down. Like a light switch. Looked right past me. It was eerie.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then shakes his head, a humorless smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t decide if I should ground her or buy her ice cream. Guess that tells you everything about where I’m at.” Travis shifts again in his seat, chair creaking beneath him like it’s tired of this dance. “She’s got fire. Always has. But lately, it’s burnin’ hotter. Think she’s starting to feel the cracks in the world, y’know? Starting to understand that some stuff doesn’t get fixed, just… follows you 'round.”

He looks at Emil again, eyes softer now. “Funny how we spend half our lives trying not to turn into our old man. Then one day we’re sittin’ in these goddamn chairs, tryin’ not to sound just like ‘em.”