Page 77 of Knot my First Rodeo

The rain starts coming down sometime around sunset, steady enough against the windows that nobody even pretends we’re grilling out for dinner anymore. The whole house feels quieter when storms roll through, not silent, just calmer. Clint makes one half-hearted attempt at opening the fridge before standing there for a second too long, staring at random shit in the fridge.

He sighs, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and grabs his phone instead. “Pizza?”

“Yes,” I say immediately.

Tripp points at me from where he’s sprawled across one of the kitchen stools. “That right there is the most enthusiasm she’s had all day.”

“I’m tired,” I mutter, shifting further into my chair while I pull one knee up underneath me.

The truth is, ‘tired’ feels like a weak word for what’s happening to me. I’ve been even more off since I woke up this morning, getting worse as the day dragged on. My stomach keeps cramping at random, bad enough that I catch myself pressing a hand there without thinking, and every little thing feels sharper somehow.

I know exactly what’s coming, and I have no way to stop it.

I’m trying very hard not to panic.

“Rough day?” Clint asks while scrolling through pizza options.

I shrug one shoulder. “Stayed up too late reading.”

“What was it this time?” Tripp asks.

“Dragon shifters.”

Nobody even reacts anymore.

Briggs leans against the counter near the coffee maker, arms crossed over his chest, quiet like he’s been all day. Which honestly only makes me more annoyed, because he’s still given me no apology or acknowledgment.

Nothing, just guilty little looks every once in a while, before pretending he wasn’t staring.

Coward.

Tripp shakes his head slowly. “You got rodeo cowboys living in the same house and you’re fantasizing about dragons.”

“Cowboys are emotionally exhausting.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of Briggs’ mouth before he looks away.

Clint orders enough pizza to feed an army, then tosses his phone onto the counter and settles into one of the chairs. The conversation drifts naturally after that, moving toward the next rodeo. Entry fees, fuel costs, and Tripp bringing up the weather forecast, and the other two immediately assuming he’s wrong.

“You ready for another rodeo next weekend?” Tripp asks, turning toward me.

The question catches me off guard. Not because he asked, but because nobody phrases things like if you want to. They don’t treat me like I’m temporary.

Somewhere between chores, and nearly committing assault in public over buckle bunnies, I apparently stopped being somebody visiting, and became somebody expected.

“Yeah,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “I’m ready to go.”

“Good,” Clint says easily. “You’re gettin’ decent at helping.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “A compliment?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m making it weird.”

Tripp laughs into his drink while Briggs glances up briefly from where he’s still leaning against the counter, whiskey eyes catching mine for half a second before dropping away again.

My stomach flips, which is unfair considering I’m still mad at him.