Page 14 of Oops I Fell For The Rancher Next Door

"Not everything requires a conversation, Cade." The peanut butter hits the shelf hard enough to rattle the dishes.

"Something's wrong."

"Something's always wrong. That's life." I shove the last bag into the recycling bin under the sink. My hands are shaking again. My whole body is shaking. And I can't stop it because Kevin found me. He found this place. The one place that was supposed to be just mine.

"Is it the ex?"

My head snaps up. "How do you know about my ex?"

"You told me. Two weeks ago, at the fence."

Right. The afternoon with the sandwiches when my mouth decided to stop guarding the door. I told him about Kevin's opinions, about the laughing, about the silence.

"Was he just controlling or was he dangerous?" Cade asks, quiet. Steady. That same patience that usually calms me now making me want to scream because I don't want to be calmed. I want to be furious. Fury is simpler.

"He's not gonna show up here with a gun, if that's what you're asking."

"That's not what I'm asking."

"Then what are you asking?"

"Whether you're safe."

The word cracks me open. Safe. The same word I whispered in his bed. The same word I can't seem to stop reaching for and can't seem to keep.

"I'm fine. It's a legal thing. My lawyer's handling it."

"Okay."

"It's not your problem."

"Didn't say it was."

"But you're standing in my kitchen with that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The one where you're deciding what to fix." My voice breaks. Shatters, really, right down the middle. "You can't fix this, Cade. This isn't a fence or a porch step. This is my life. My mess. And I don't need you showing up every time something goes wrong so you can be useful."

The word lands. Useful. I see it hit because his jaw tightens. His hands go still at his sides.

"That's what you think I'm doing?"

"I think you're a man who fixes things because that's what makes you feel needed. And I think I'm just the closest broken thing to your property line."

Silence. The cabin settles around us. The fire pops. Wind against the windows.

His face is unreadable. He's good at that. Five years of solitude teaches a man how to keep his expression locked while everything behind it burns.

"I've never once thought you were broken." His voice is low. Controlled. "But if you need space, I know how to give it."

He walks out. Doesn't slam the door. Doesn't argue. Just pulls it closed behind him with a quiet click that's worse than any slam.

His truck starts. Gravel crunches. The sound fades up the road toward his property.

The cabin is silent.

I stand in my kitchen with my hands flat on the counter, breathing. The shaking stops eventually. The tightness in my chest eases from unbearable to just heavy.