The barn aisle glows bright in the warm evening as they untack side by side, the steady clink of buckles and soft rustle of saddle pads filling the warm air between them. Scarlett slides Azzie’s bridle free with practiced hands, fingers brushing the sleek line of his jaw before reaching for a towel, while Max loosens Dakota’s girth slowly, deliberately, as though he had nowhere else to be. The scent of clean sweat and leather wrapped around them, intimate and grounding.

"You were staring again today," Max says lightly, lifting Dakota’s saddle from her back and setting it on the rack with effortless strength. "I’m starting to think it’s not my riding you’re evaluating."

Scarlett shoots him a look over Azzie’s dark shoulder, though the faint color touching her freckled cheeks betrays her. "I was assessing flaws," she replies coolly, running a brush down the gelding’s flank in long, firm strokes. "It’s important to know your competition’s weaknesses."

He steps closer under the pretense of reaching for a curry comb, close enough that the warmth from his arm brushes hers for a fleeting second. "And?" he asks softly, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel intentional. "Found any?"

Her grip tightens slightly on the brush. "Still searching."

Max’s smirk deepens as he begains currying Dakota in slow circles, muscles flexing beneath his sleeves. "Careful, Warrens," he murmurs, eyes sliding to her lips before returning to her gaze. "If you keep looking that determined, I might start thinking you enjoy the challenge."

Scarlett steps around Azzie to rinse her sponge, pausing just long enough to meet his eyes head-on. "Oh, I do," she says smoothly. "Just don’t mistake interest for surrender."

The air between them thickens, playful tension turning molten for a heartbeat too long, neither of them stepping back even as their horses shifted comfortably beside them - blissfully unaware that the real sparring had never left the arena.

"Interest? Oh, so you're interested in me? That's quite flattering coming from such a pretty girl." Max grins, stepping close enough that the warmth of his steady breath tickles her face. 

"You know damn well what I meant, Summers," she grumbles, shooting him a look cold enough to freeze the hottest of summers. 

"Do I though?" He snickers, returning to Dakota's side as he continues brushing her in circular motions.

Scarlett sets the sponge down with deliberate precision, stepping closer until the space between them feels intentional rather than accidental. Azzie shifts quietly behind her, but she doesn’t break eye contact.

"You’re not nearly as oblivious as you pretend to be," she says evenly, though there’s a flicker of heat beneath the cool surface. "You just enjoy hearing me say it."

Her gaze drifts - briefly, deliberately - over the line of his shoulders before returning to his eyes.

"But don’t confuse interest with permission," she adds, voice dropping just slightly. "If I wanted you to know exactly how interested I was, Summers. . . you wouldn’t be guessing."

Max pauses mid-brush, then lets out a soft, amused huff, shaking his head like she’s just proven his point. He sets the curry comb down casually and leans one forearm against the center railing in the washstall, giving Scarlett a slow once-over that’s more playful than intense.

"Oh, I’m definitely not oblivious," he says, grin widening. "I just like watching you try to outmaneuver me."

He steps a fraction closer - but not close enough to corner her - just enough to make the air feel charged.

"And trust me," he adds lightly, tilting his head, "if you were actually giving me permission, Warrens, I’d know. You’re many things. . . subtle isn’t one of them."

He flashes her a wink before turning back to Dakota, brushing again like he hasn’t just tossed the challenge straight back into her court.

"Sure, whatever you say Summers." Scarlett grumbles quietly, slipping Arasael's ink blue head collar on. She buckles it swiftly, tightening it until it fits perfectly on the gelding's head. She then leads the equine from the tiled wash stall, into his stall. She tosses a fly rug over his coat, buckles clicking as she clasps them together. Then she turns. Eyes squinted at the man who stands in the gateway of the stall, arms crossed leaning against the black metal bars which encase the emerald panelling. 

"What now? I have to get going," she exhales sharply, stopping in her tracks.