Scarlett did not look at him the next morning.

Not when she entered the arena at dawn, frost still clinging faintly to the white rails in delicate silver lines. Not when Dakota spooked lightly at a shadow near the oxer and Max steadied her with quiet skill. Not when he cleared the triple combination clean and glanced toward Scarlett out of habit, waiting for the inevitable tilt of her chin, the small narrowing of her eyes that meant she’d spotted something he could have done better.

There was nothing.

No commentary.
No challenge.
No fire.

Only distance.

And Scarlett Warrens did nothing unintentionally.

She rode Azzie with mechanical precision, asking for collection, then extension, then perfect bend through the corners. Her posture was immaculate, her hands steady, her expression carved from something colder than discipline - something intentional. If anyone had been watching closely enough, they might have noticed the faint rigidity in her shoulders, the way she avoided the far side of the arena where Max usually schooled Dakota.

But Max noticed.

He noticed everything about her.

The meeting the night before had lasted exactly twenty-three minutes.

Scarlett had counted.

The Head Master’s office at Walden Academy was designed to intimidate without appearing to do so - dark wood paneling, shelves lined with equestrian trophies and framed photographs of alumni who had gone on to international acclaim. Excellence hung in the air like expectation made physical.

"Walden invests in discipline, Miss Warrens," the Head Master had said calmly, fingers steepled on the desk. "And discipline extends beyond the arena."

The words had been polite.

Measured.

Careful.

But the implication beneath them had been razor sharp.

Visibility mattered.
Reputation mattered.
Association mattered.

Her scholarship was merit-based. Conduct-sensitive. Reviewable.

Reviewable.

Scarlett had held her expression steady, chin lifted, hands folded neatly in her lap as though the conversation did not feel like a tightening noose around her future.

When she left the office, her phone had rung before she reached the bottom of the steps.

Her father.

"I assume you understand the severity of this," he had said without greeting. His tone was not angry. It was worse - controlled. "You are not at Walden to socialize."

"It was coffee," she had replied harshly, voice cracking with emotion. "You did not have to go to Ms.Pattridge about these matters. It was simply a cup of coffee. . !" 

"It was visibility," he corrected. "You are building a legacy, Scarlett. Do not sabotage it for something fleeting."

Something fleeting.

"If you lose this scholarship," he continued, voice lowering, "you lose everything you’ve worked for. Do not let a boy cost you your future."

She had not argued.

She had not defended him.

She had simply absorbed the command.

And that night, staring at the ceiling of her dorm room, Scarlett made a decision the way she made all decisions - strategically.

She would cut the distraction.

She would regain control.

She would not let weakness cost her everything.

So she does not look at him.

Not when he approaches her at the mounting block.

"Okay," he speaks lightly, though confusion flickers behind his usual ease. "What did I do?"

"You didn’t do anything," she replies, adjusting Azzie’s reins without meeting his eyes.

"That’s worse."

She places her boot in the stirrup and swings into the saddle in one fluid, elegant motion. Gaze locked on the golden sand below.

"I have training to focus on."

"You always have training to focus on," he replies, searching her face for something - anything - familiar.

She gathers the reins. Squeezes her heels, and nods softly as Arasael walks off. Scarlett holds herself in a collected manner, breathing steady, yet her hands shake and her gaze is weak, no longer harsh like a wall. If you wanted to, you could see right through her.

It lasted three days.

Three long, suffocating days of absence where something electric had once lived.

No coffee invitations.
No lingering glances.
No teasing remarks about stride distances or overconfidence.

Scarlett moved through the academy like a ghost wrapped in perfection. She answered questions in class. She rode flawlessly. She left arenas the moment her training concluded.

And Max felt the shift like the sudden absence of gravity.

At first, he told himself she was stressed.

Then he told himself she was proving a point.

By the fourth afternoon, as Dakota clips a rail she normally would have cleared blindfolded, irritation bleeds into something sharper.

He finds her at the gate as she dismounts.

"Talk to me."

"There’s nothing to discuss."

"Don’t," he says, stepping into her path. "Don’t do that."

Her fingers tighten on Azzie’s reins. Breathing in deeply, exhaling sharply though her nose. Scarlett's gaze moves from her boots, to his gloved hands, then to the sand then Dakota. Anywhere but Max's hurt expression.

"Do what?"

"Act like I imagined everything. Every little competitive tease, every fleeting glance, every conversation filled with flirty comments. Don't act like I imagined it all, please Scarlett. . ." Max's voice trails off, quivering slightly.

The wind cuts across the arena, carrying the faint scent of rain.

Scarlett keeps her voice controlled. "This isn’t about you."

"That’s interesting," he replies, jaw tightening. "Because it feels exactly like it is."

A few riders slow their circles, attention drifting. Watching, listening, waiting.

Scarlett notices.

She always will.

"Lower your voice," she says sharply.

"Why?" he challenges. "Embarrassed?"

Her head snaps toward him, icy blue eyes flashing.

"Don’t be ridiculous."

"Then what is it?" he presses. "Because four days ago you were daring me to chase you across a café table, and now you won’t even look at me."

Silence.

Heavy. Visible. Watching.

Scarlett inhales slowly, yet her breath hitches, she lets out a shaky exhale. Hands gripping the reins, quivering.

"This was a mistake."

The words land between them like a dropped rail.

Max goes still.

"What?"

"We’re competitors," she continues, each word deliberate. "We represent this academy. We have reputations. Futures. I cannot afford distractions."

Distractions.

The word echos, cold, harsh, destroying.

"So that’s what I am?" he asks quietly.

She hesitates - and that hesitation says everything.

His expression shifts.

Not playful.

Not amused.

Wounded.

"Right," he says, stepping back half a pace. "Got it."

"This isn’t personal," she insists.

He laughs, but it holds no humor.

"It’s entirely personal."

"You don’t understand what’s at stake for me." Scarlett mutters, gaze locked on her boots, grip tightening.

"Then explain it." Max pushes.

"I don’t owe you an explanation."

"No," he replies, voice tightening. “But you owe me honesty.”

Her composure fractures just slightly.

"My scholarship is conditional," she says finally, low enough that only he can hear. "My conduct. My associations. My image. I will not jeopardize that."

Understanding dawns slowly in his expression.

"And I’m the liability."

She doesn’t answer, fidgeting, eyes burning.

And that silence hurts Max more than any accusation.

"You think I don’t have pressure?" he says, stepping closer, voice dropping. "You think I don’t have expectations breathing down my neck every second I’m in the saddle?"

"That’s not what I said."

"You didn’t have to."

Frustration cracks through her restraint.

"I cannot afford to lose this, Max."

His name slipped out before she could stop it.

"And I can?" he replies, something raw cutting through his voice.

"This isn’t about who suffers more."

"No," he said quietly. "It’s about you deciding I’m optional."

Her throat tightens.

"I’m choosing my future."

"And I’m choosing not to beg someone to stay."

The finality in his tone stuns her.

He steps around her this time - not blocking, not teasing, not waiting for a comeback.

"Good luck with your focus, Warrens."

And he walks away.

Scarlett stands in the center of the arena long after the whispers began.

Azzie shifts beneath her, restless.

The rails gleam white in the fading light.

She has protected her scholarship.

Protected her discipline.

Protected her future.

So why does it feel like something far more fragile has just shattered at her feet?