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He pauses.
I swallow, my grip tightening for half a second before I let go. “Don’t… die.”
His brow lifts slightly, then he smirks. “Wasn’t planning on it.”
And then he’s gone. I turn back to the arena, my hands finding the rail again, fingers curling around the metal, my pulse still kicking harder than it should, like it hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.
The announcer’s voice rolls right back in, loud and easy, already moving on like what just happened wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.
Barrel racing.
The energy changes, not quieter, but different. The first rider takes off, her horse cutting hard around the first barrel, dirt spraying out in a wide arc as they turn tight enough that it makes my stomach dip.
I track the movement without thinking, my grip on the rail loosening just slightly as I follow the pattern. Around one, then two, then three, each turn snapping quickly, the horse responding instantly, like it’s reading her mind instead of waiting for direction.
“Different, right?” Tripp says beside me.
I nod, my eyes still on the arena. “Yeah.”
“Speed and control,” he adds. “Just… a different kind.”
I can see it. It’s still fast, still intense, but it doesn’t hit the same way. Doesn’t grab me the same way.
My fingers curl back into the rail without me realizing it, because I’m not watching them anymore. I’m watching for him.
Clint appears by my side a few minutes later, dust clinging to his jeans, light brown hair pushed back just enough to show the sweat at his temples. When he gets close, that same warm scent hits again; coffee and vanilla cutting through everything else, and my breath stutters before I can stop it.
I forget to breathe for a second, straightening without thinking, my hands slipping from the rail.
“That was—” I start, then stop, my words catching somewhere between my chest and my mouth.
He slows when he reaches us, his gaze flicking over me, like he’s checking something.
“What?” he asks.
I shake my head once, dragging a hand through my hair. “That was fast.”
His mouth pulls slightly at the corner, not quite a full smile, but close enough that it does something weird to my stomach.
“That’s the goal.”
“No, I mean—” I stop again, my fingers curling into my palm. “You were already off the horse before it even stopped. I didn’t even see you move.”
His eyes stay on me a second longer than they should.
“You weren’t supposed to,” he says, quieter now. He’s close enough now that he’s all I can breathe in, and I have to force my eyes back up to his.
Heat creeps up my neck, settling across my cheeks before I can stop it. I drop my gaze for half a second, then force it back up, refusing to let him catch it.
“Still insane,” I mutter.
He huffs a soft breath that sounds too close to a laugh, then leans his forearms against the rail beside me like he’s been standing there the whole time.
“Wait till you see him,” he says, nodding toward the arena.
My stomach tightens again, because I already know who he means.
The last barrel racer clears the pattern, the crowd clapping as she pulls her horse to a stop, and the announcer’s voice shifts again, building louder now, feeding the energy back up.
