The morning light came too soon.
The city outside was alive, restless, moving on, but I wasn't.
I had always woken up with precision.
5:00 A.M. sharp.
Coffee, oats, stretch, saddle.
Discipline had been my armor long before trophies became my validation.
But that morning, the rhythm faltered.
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks like they were constellations. Sleep had come, yes, but it was shallow, interrupted by flashes that didn't belong to dreams.
His voice.
His touch.
That kiss.
I turned to my side, exhaling hard, as if I could push the memory out of my body.
It was ridiculous.
A moment.
A mistake.
A lapse in judgment.
Except it didn't feel like one.
Because no matter how I tried to rationalize it, something about it stayed, like warmth that refused to fade, like a mark pressed against the inside of my ribs.
I sat up abruptly.
Enough.
The stable.
I needed the stable.
—
By the time I arrived, the morning mist still clung to the air.
The scent of hay and dew was sharp, grounding.
My horse, Celeste, lifted her head as I approached, soft eyes meeting mine.
"Hey, girl," I whispered, brushing her mane back.
She snorted lightly, almost as if in greeting.
This was my sanctuary, the one place where silence wasn't heavy.
I led her out, tightening the saddle straps, pulling my gloves on with practiced ease.
The leather creaked softly.
Every motion was habit, every breath deliberate.
Control.
That's what I needed.
But even as I guided Celeste around the track, my focus wavered.
It wasn't the jumps or the footing.
It was him.
The way his hand had trembled slightly when he brushed my hair aside.
The quiet way he said my name, like it meant something more than a formality.
The way I had let him.
The whip in my hand tightened unconsciously.
I urged Vega faster, heart thudding with every stride.
"Again," I whispered to myself.
We circled once more.
Then again.
Then again.
Speed blurred everything, the fences, the air, the noise inside my head.
For a moment, I could almost forget.
Almost.
Because no matter how fast I went, memory was faster.
The kiss returned in fragments.
The warmth of his breath.
The scent of rain still clinging to his skin.
The silence after, when I had no idea who I was supposed to be.
I pulled the reins too sharply, and Celeste protested with a sharp neigh.
"Sorry," I muttered, steadying her again, guilt threading through my chest.
"You're distracted."
The voice came from behind.
Familiar.
Calm.
I froze before turning.
Calix stood by the rail, hands in his pockets, watching me.
He shouldn't have been here.
"You followed me," I said flatly.
"Technically, I drove you."
I gave him a look.
He smiled, unbothered. "I figured you'd come here first thing. You always do after… intense days."
"Intense days?" I echoed.
"Dinner with your parents," he said simply. "And… everything after."
The words hung between us like a quiet storm.
I looked away, adjusting the stirrups just to have something to do. "That was nothing."
He didn't answer right away. When he did, his tone was softer. "It didn't feel like nothing."
I tightened my grip on the reins. "You're overthinking it."
"Maybe you're under-feeling it."
That made me look up, sharply.
He stood still, gaze steady, not mocking, not demanding, just honest.
And somehow, that disarmed me more than anger ever could.
"Why are you here, Calix?"
He shrugged slightly. "Because you looked like you needed someone to stay."
"I don't need anyone."
"I know," he said quietly. "You just keep saying that like it'll make it true."
The nerve.
The audacity.
I wanted to walk away, to mount Celeste and ride until his voice faded.
But my body refused to move.
He started walking toward me, slow, cautious, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes.
"You think the only way to survive is to hold everything in," he continued. "To keep your walls up, to not feel too much. But that's not strength, Aurora. That's exhaustion."
I clenched my jaw. "You think you understand me?"
"No." He shook his head. "But I want to."
The simplicity of that answer hit me harder than I expected.
People had always wanted something from me, a win, a show, a name, a reputation.
No one had ever simply wanted to know me.
And that's what terrified me most about him.
Because he was not forcing himself into my world.
He was quietly standing at the edge of it, waiting for me to open the door.
Celeste shifted beneath me, impatient.
I took it as an excuse to break eye contact that suddenly felt too intimate.
"Don't you have work or something?"
He smiled faintly. "You're trying to get rid of me."
"I'm not trying. I'm succeeding."
He chuckled. "Then why haven't you asked me to leave?"
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," he said softly, "but you're not as untouchable as you think."
Something inside me snapped, not in anger, but in surrender.
I dismounted, boots crunching against the dirt, and faced him fully.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
"Then tell me," he replied. "Make me understand."
I stared at him, words clawing at the back of my throat.
But nothing came out.
Because how could I explain the emptiness of growing up being told that affection was weakness? That emotion was a distraction? That victory was the only form of love worth earning?
How could I tell him that the only warmth I had ever known came from moments like last night, fleeting, uninvited, terrifying?
I turned away. "I have to practice."
He didn't stop me.
He just stepped back, giving me space, but I could feel his eyes on me the entire time.
Every turn, every jump, every breath, he was there.
Not in the way that distracted, but in the way that anchored.
When I finally stopped, chest rising and falling in rhythm with Celeste's breaths, the world felt quieter.
He was still standing by the fence.
Our eyes met again.
And this time, I didn't look away.
For a second, the silence between us wasn't uncomfortable.
It was something else.
Something fragile but alive.
He smiled, not wide, not triumphant, just soft. "You look more like yourself when you stop pretending you don't care."
I wanted to tell him he was wrong.
That I didn't care.
That I never would.
But all I could manage was, "You talk too much."
He laughed, that quiet, unguarded kind of laugh that made my chest tighten.
"I'll take that as a sign you're not mad."
I didn't answer.
Instead, I walked past him, brushing his arm lightly, unintentionally, or maybe not.
And though I didn't turn back, I knew he was smiling.
—
Later, when I returned to the condo, I showered, ate, and tried to fall asleep.
But the image of him by the fence, waiting, watching, never left.
And neither did the memory of that kiss.
It haunted me, not because it was wrong, but because it felt right.
Too right.
For someone who had never believed in softness, that was the most dangerous feeling of all.