Page 67 of That Rush

I drag my glove off with my teeth and type.

Me: I don’t repeat myself.

Paige: That sounds concerning.

Me: I’ll put you on the edge of your bed and show you the difference.

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Paige: Assuming you survive six miles at altitude.

Me: Keep questioning my stamina. I like knowing you’ll have to apologize naked.

Her response takes longer this time.

Paige: Your confidence remains deeply irritating.

Me: It didn’t irritate you Friday night.

It’s not just the way she sounds when a moan breaks through her control, or how she steals the covers then tucks her cold feet between my calves. Every new detail just makes the gaps more obvious. I find myself wondering what she drinks when she works late, what she reads during lunch, why she picked that specific alpine lake. I want all of it—the easy answers and the ones I’ll have to earn.

“That’s definitely Paige,” Axel says.

I slide the phone into my pocket. “You don’t know that.”

“You don’t smile at anyone else like you’re picturing them without clothes.”

“Maybe I was reading a weather alert.”

“Must be one hell of a storm system.”

I pick up the fencing pliers and walk toward the next post. Axel falls into step beside me, ignoring the hint.

“So this is more than a hookup,” he says.

“We’re not putting a name on it.”

“You asked her?”

“We agreed.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“It’s all I’m giving you.”

Paige and I agreed we are not seeing anyone else. Being exclusive means I know no one else is in her bed. It doesn’t give me the right to put a name on this before she does.

Axel squints at me. “You moved the north-pasture check to Thursday.”

“The cattle won’t care.”

“You hate changing the weekly rotation.”

“I run the rotation. It doesn’t run me.”

“And you cleared Friday afternoon.”

“Paige picked a trail.”