Max did not return to the barn.

Scarlett realized it the moment she saw him stride past the gate instead of toward the stable aisle, Dakota’s reins already gathered firmly in his hand. There was something in the way he moved - not rushed, not wild, but deliberate in a way that felt wrong. Controlled anger always looked cleaner than chaos. That was what made it dangerous.

He mounted in one fluid motion, swinging into the saddle with the same athletic precision that usually made spectators admire him. But Scarlett saw what others didn’t. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way his jaw flexed once before he gathered the reins. The absence of warmth.

Dakota shifted beneath him, tossing her head lightly as if testing the tension running down the leather into her mouth.

He didn’t warm her up properly.

That was the first thing that made Scarlett’s stomach tighten.

Max was methodical. He believed in preparation. In building rhythm before height. In soft hands and gradual collection.

Today he asked for canter almost immediately.

Dakota sprang forward, startled by the sudden demand, hooves digging into the sand as she surged into motion. The footing sprayed lightly behind her in a golden arc. Scarlett felt Azzie tense beneath her, the gelding’s ears flicking sharply toward the pair across the arena.

"Don’t," she whispered under her breath.

She wasn’t sure if she meant him.

The first fence came too quickly - a vertical set slightly above training height, white rails catching the late afternoon light. Max didn’t steady Dakota before takeoff. Didn’t sit deep and rebalance like he always did. He pushed.

The mare launched.

For a split second they hovered - not in harmony, but in force.

They cleared it by inches.

Dakota landed long, scrambling slightly before finding her stride again. The rhythm wasn’t right. Scarlett could see it. Too forward. Too tight in the mouth.

He circled sharply.

Too sharply.

Dakota’s head came up in protest.

Scarlett’s fingers tightened unconsciously around Azzie’s reins.

The second fence was an oxer.

Wider. Less forgiving.

Max set the approach aggressively, asking for more stride instead of compressing it. Dakota lengthened obediently, trusting. She always trusted him.

"Max," Scarlett called before she could stop herself.

He didn’t look at her.

Dakota met the base awkwardly. She chipped in one short stride, adjusting at the last possible second. Her hind legs clipped the back rail hard on landing.

The crack of wood splitting against metal snapped through the arena like a gunshot.

The rail crashed into the sand.

A few riders gasped audibly.

Scarlett felt it physically - the jolt of it in her chest.

That wasn’t Dakota.

That wasn’t him.

He wheeled her around again, frustration no longer hidden. It rolled off him in visible waves now - the tightness of his elbows, the harsher contact on the reins.

He lined up for the combination.

Scarlett’s breath thinned.

That line required precision. Balance. Patience.

He had none of those right now.

"Max, don’t," she called again, louder this time.

For a heartbeat - one suspended, fragile heartbeat - he looked at her.

And the expression on his face wasn’t anger.

It was hurt.

Deep. Unfiltered. Raw.

Then he faced forward and rode anyway.

Dakota flew over the first element cleanly, muscle memory carrying her where emotional stability failed. But she landed heavy, slightly off balance. Max corrected mid-stride, asking for collection too late. She launched at the second fence with uncertainty, twisting just slightly in the air.

On landing, she stumbled.

Not dramatically.

Not enough to fall.

But enough to terrify.

The arena went dead silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlett is off Azzie before she consciously makes the decision. Her boots hit the sand hard as she crosses the arena, adrenaline pushing her forward.

"What are you doing?" she demands when she reaches him, her voice low but shaking with restrained fury.

Max dismounts abruptly, boots hitting the ground with a thud. He pulls Dakota’s reins over her neck and avoids looking at Scarlett as he runs a hand down the mare’s shoulder.

"I’m riding," he says flatly.

"No," Scarlett snaps, stepping closer. "You’re punishing her."

This makes him look at her.

And this time, the anger is visible.

"I don’t need a lecture from someone who just decided I’m expendable."

The word lodges in her chest.

"This isn’t about that," she insists, though even to her own ears the argument sounds thin.

"It’s exactly about that," he shoots back.

Dakota shifts uneasily between them, sensing the volatility vibrating through both riders.

Scarlett lowers her voice, conscious now of the audience around them.

"You’re better than this," she says.

"And you’re colder than I thought."

The words aren’t loud.

They don’t need to be.

They strike with surgical precision.

Her spine goes rigid.

"You don’t get to question my choices."

"And you don’t get to question my worth."

Silence falls again.

Heavy. Crushing.

For the first time since this started, Scarlett truly sees him - not the flirt, not the rival, not the golden boy smiling under pressure.

She sees the fracture.

The fear of being measured and found lacking.

The exhaustion of always proving.

The wound she had pressed without meaning to.

"Max-" she begins, softer now.

But he shakes his head once.

"No," he says quietly. "You made it clear. I’m a distraction."

The word mirrors her own from earlier.

He leads Dakota past her without another glance.

Scarlett remains standing in the center of the arena, Azzie waiting near the rail, ears pricked toward her.

The white fences gleam under the lowering sun.

The same arena where they had once challenged each other now felt like a battlefield after the damage had already been done.

Scarlett shakes her head, eyes burning, tears threatening to fall down her cheeks. She approaches Arasael, pulling the reins from his neck, leading him out of the arena. Other riders watch, judging silently as she quickly exits through the gates, hurrying towards the barn. 

Scarlett does not remember walking back to the barn.

One moment she is standing in the arena, the echo of his words still reverberating through her chest. The next, she is leading Azzie down the familiar gravel path toward the stable yard, her hand resting automatically against the gelding’s warm neck. The late afternoon light stretches long across the courtyard, bathing everything in a soft amber glow that feels undeservedly gentle.

Azzie nudges her shoulder once, softly.

She swallows.

“I’m fine,” she murmurs.

The lie tastes metallic.

Inside the barn, it is quieter than usual. A few students move in low conversation, the clink of metal buckles and the steady rhythm of brushing filling the air. Scarlett guides Azzie into the wash stall with practiced efficiency, tying him securely before reaching for the girth buckles.

Her fingers do not tremble.

She refuses to let them.

She loosens the girth one hole at a time, methodical, careful. The leather slides through the billets with soft, familiar resistance. She lifts the saddle from his back with steady arms, even though her chest feels tight enough to fracture bone.

Distraction.

Expendable.

Colder than I thought.

She sets the saddle onto the rack. Perfectly centered.

The bridle comes next. She slips it from Azzie’s head gently, careful not to knock his ears, even as her thoughts collide in sharp, unrelenting waves.

You made it clear. I’m a distraction.

The words weren’t cruel.

That was the worst part.

They were honest.

Azzie turns his head slightly, breath warm against her wrist. Scarlett leans into the contact without thinking, pressing her forehead briefly against the gelding’s smooth black coat.

"I didn’t mean it like that," she whispers.

But she had.

Not intentionally.

Not maliciously.

But she had reduced him to something manageable. Something strategic. Something she could cut away to protect herself.

She reaches for the sponge and begins wiping the sweat marks from Azzie’s coat. The repetitive motion usually calmed her. Today, it only made the silence louder.

Around her, the barn carried on as normal. Laughter from the far aisle. Someone arguing gently about feed ratios. The ordinary sounds of routine.

And yet everything feels distant, as though she is moving through glass.

She finishes cooling him down and leads him carefully into his stall, laying fresh shavings near the entrance before removing his boots. She runs her hands down each leg, checking tendons automatically, though her thoughts were elsewhere.

Dakota’s stumble replays in her mind.

The way Max had looked at her before riding the combination.

Not angry.

Hurt.

Her throat tightens.

She tosses Azzie’s cooler gently over his back and fastens the buckles with precise clicks. Every movement exact. Controlled. Disciplined.

That is what she does best.

Control.

She lingers in the stall longer than necessary, brushing slow strokes through Azzie’s mane, untangling strands that didn’t need untangling.

"If you’re not the best," her father’s voice echos faintly in memory, "you’re nothing."

Nothing.

Her jaw clenches.

She gathers her grooming kit and leaves before the pressure behind her eyes can rise any further.

She will not cry here.

Not where someone can see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walk to the dorm feels longer than usual.

The evening air has turned colder, the sky fading into bruised shades of violet and deep blue. Students cross the courtyard in pairs and small groups, their voices low and warm, their laughter unguarded.

Scarlett walks alone.

Her spine remains straight. Her expression composed. Anyone passing her would see nothing unusual — just the scholarship rider with the immaculate posture and unshakable focus.

They would not see the way her hands are clenched inside the sleeves of her jacket.

They would not hear the way her breath comes slightly too shallow.

She unlocks her dorm room and steps inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

The silence hits immediately.

No horses shifting in stalls.
No soft barn noises.
No structured routine to hide inside.

Just stillness.

Her bag slips from her shoulder and lands on the floor with a muted thud.

Scarlett stands there for a long moment, unmoving.

And then the control fractures.

It starts small.

A sharp inhale that doesn’t quite fill her lungs.

A tremor in her fingers.

Then the weight of it all comes down at once - the Head Master’s measured warning, her father’s controlled disappointment, the arena’s watching silence, the look in Max’s eyes when he realized what she had reduced him to.

Distraction.

She presses the heel of her hand to her mouth, as if physically holding something in.

It doesn’t work.

The first tear surprises her.

Hot. Sudden.

It slides down her cheek before she can stop it.

Scarlett inhales sharply again, anger flashing - at herself, at the weakness, at the loss of composure.

But once the first crack forms, the rest follows.

Her knees give slightly and she sinks onto the edge of her bed, shoulders curling inward as though bracing against impact.

She had done the right thing.

She had protected her scholarship.

Protected her future.

So why did it feel like she had amputated something vital?

A sob escapes before she can swallow it back.

Raw. Unpolished. Ugly.

Scarlett Warrens did not sob.

She endured.

But tonight the endurance fractured.

Tears blur her vision as she presses both hands to her face, her breath hitching in uneven rhythm. The sound fills the small dorm room, painfully intimate in the quiet.

She isn’t crying just for him.

She is crying for the pressure.

For the constant measuring.

For the impossibility of being human and perfect at the same time.

For the way she had seen herself reflected in his hurt.

And hated what she saw.

When the storm finally quiets, it leaves her hollow.

She lays back against the bedspread, staring at the ceiling, eyes swollen and throat aching.

Tomorrow she would wake up.

She would braid her hair neatly.

She would ride flawlessly.

She would speak calmly.

No one would know.

But somewhere deep beneath her discipline, beneath her scholarship, beneath the legacy she was building -

a fault line had opened.

And she isn’t sure how much more pressure it could take.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlett doesn’t know how long she layed there.

Long enough for the sky outside her window to darken completely. Long enough for the sounds of laughter in the courtyard to fade into the softer hum of evening. Long enough for the sharp edge of her sobbing to dull into something quieter — more dangerous. The kind of ache that settles into bone.

Her eyes feel swollen. Her throat raw. But the tears have stopped.

She rolls onto her side, staring at the thin strip of light beneath her dorm door.

And that was when she spots the shadow.

It moves.

Just slightly.

Not pacing.

Not leaving.

Just there.

Her heart stutters.

Scarlett holds her breath, as if stillness would make it disappear. But the shadow remains, faint and unmistakable against the warm glow of the hallway lights.

Someone is outside her door.

Her pulse begins to climb, slow and heavy.

She sits up carefully, wiping at her face with the sleeve of her sweater, forcing composure back into place by instinct. She stands, crossing the small room in quiet steps until she was close enough to hear it.

Breathing.

Soft. Controlled.

Familiar.

Her hand hovers inches from the doorknob.

He hadn’t knocked.

He hadn’t called her name.

He hadn’t texted.

He was just standing there.

And somehow that undoes her more than if he had been pounding on the door demanding answers.

She swallows.

Then, carefully, she opens it.

Max stands in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly slouched in a way she had never seen before. The cocky ease was gone. The golden grin nowhere to be found.

He looks up when the door opens.

And for a second, neither of them speak.

The overhead lights cast soft shadows across his face, catching in his sage-grey eyes. They flick over her quickly - taking in the flushed cheeks, the faint redness around her eyes, the way her breathing isn’t entirely steady.

Something in his expression shifts.

Not triumph.

Not satisfaction.

Guilt.

"I wasn’t going to knock," he says quietly. His voice is lower than usual, stripped of its teasing cadence. "I just. . . needed to make sure you were okay."