Scarlett wakes before the sun fully rises.

For a moment, she doesn’t move.

Max’s arm is still draped around her waist, heavy and warm, his breathing slow against the back of her shoulder. The early morning light filters in through the dorm windows, soft and pale, catching dust in the air like suspended glitter. It is quiet in a way Walden rarely is - no instructors, no hooves striking pavement, no measured commands cutting through the dawn.

Just warmth.

Just steady breathing.

Just the unfamiliar feeling of being held without expectation.

Her fingers curl slightly in the fabric of his sleeve before she can stop herself.

And then the guilt seeps in.

Not sharp. Not explosive.

Slow.

Her father’s voice does not need to shout to be heard.

Distractions cost titles.
Attachment clouds judgment.
Second place is an embarrassment.

Scarlett closes her eyes briefly.

She had let herself be vulnerable. She had leaned into someone instead of standing on her own. She had chosen comfort over control.

She had disobeyed.

Max shifts slightly in his sleep, his hold tightening instinctively as if even unconscious he refuses to let her pull too far away. The simple, unthinking gesture does something dangerous to her chest.

She studies his face.

Without the smirk. Without the confidence. Without the easy, practiced charm. He looks younger like this. Unarmored.

It would be easier if she regretted it.

She doesn’t.

That is what unsettles her most.

Carefully, she eases out of his grasp, moving with the same precision she uses when adjusting a rein mid-course. Controlled. Quiet. Intentional.

But not cold.

When Max finally stirs, blinking against the pale light, he finds her sitting upright beside him, already composed, already collected.

"Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, a lazy smile forming as if it belongs there.

Scarlett nods once. "You should get up. Training starts in forty minutes."

He watches her for a second longer than necessary. Something in her posture is tighter than it was the night before.

"You good?" he asks.

She holds his gaze evenly. "I’m fine."

And she almost believes it.

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

Morning practice is sharp and wind-cutting.

Scarlett rides like a metronome - precise, deliberate, flawless in timing. Every stride is measured. Every turn exact. She clears each fence with technical perfection, landing balanced and aligned.

Too balanced.

Too aligned.

Max notices.

He always notices.

He finishes his own course cleanly, dismounting with his usual easy confidence, but his attention drifts back to her. She avoids looking at him, adjusting her horse’s bridle with meticulous care.

"You planning on blinking today," he calls lightly, "or is that against academy regulations?"

A few nearby riders snort quietly.

Scarlett does not smile, but her lips twitch faintly despite herself. "Focus on your own ride, Summers."

"I did. It was impressive."

"I’m sure you think so."

He grins at that. There she is.

But something is still off.

Before he can press further, a ripple moves through the edge of the arena. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a subtle shift in attention.

Scarlett feels it before she sees it.

She knows that posture.

Hands clasped behind his back.

Immovable.

Watching.

Her father stands at the perimeter of the arena as though he has always belonged there.

Her breath stutters for half a second.

Then she straightens in the saddle.

The next jump approaches too quickly. She clears it—but her landing is sharper than necessary, her horse tossing its head at the tension in her hands.

From across the ring, Max sees the change instantly.

After practice, her father approaches without hurry.

He does not greet her.

He does not embrace her.

He simply observes.

"Your seat was unstable on the oxer," he says calmly.

Scarlett removes her gloves, folding them once. "It was a clean jump."

"You anticipated the landing."

A pause.

"You’ve been unfocused."

The words are not loud. They don’t need to be.

Scarlett keeps her posture flawless. "I’ll correct it."

His gaze shifts briefly past her shoulder - toward where Max stands cooling down his horse.

"Summers is impulsive," her father continues, as though discussing weather. "Flashy riders fade."

Scarlett’s jaw tightens.

"He will not outlast you."

The implication lingers.

"You will not tie yourself to someone whose ceiling is lower than yours."

The air feels thinner.

"I did not build your future," he finishes quietly, "for you to compromise it."

Scarlett swallows once. "He isn’t relevant."

It costs her more than she allows to show.

Behind a nearby partition, Max stills.

He had not meant to overhear. But he catches enough.

Tie yourself.
Lower than yours.
Compromise.

His grip tightens on the reins.

He doesn’t step forward.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He just watches Scarlett stand there, absorbing every word without flinching. Though her posture is more rigid than before, her breath hitching in the slightest at the beginning of every comment. Something in his chest shifts from irritation to something far sharper.

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

Scarlett doesn’t return to the dorms.

She goes to the stables.

The familiar scent of hay and leather grounds her more effectively than any breathing exercise ever has. She slips into Arasael's stall and presses her forehead gently against the warm curve of his neck.

Her hands tremble.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

Just enough that she notices.

"You’re fine," she murmurs softly, though she isn’t sure if she’s speaking to Azzie or to herself.

He isn’t relevant.

The lie sits heavily in her mouth.

Her father’s threats are never shouted. They are constructed. Strategic. He does not forbid. He implies.

Scarlett has built her life around earning his approval.

What happens if she stops?

The stall door opens with a soft, reluctant creak.

Scarlett doesn’t turn. She knows who it is before he speaks. There’s a particular way silence settles around Max Summers - unhurried, deliberate, waiting.

"You don’t have to stand like that when it’s just me."

His voice is quiet, stripped of its usual teasing edge.

Still, her spine straightens instinctively, shoulders drawing back as though an invisible string has pulled them into place. She keeps one hand threaded in Azzie's charcoal mane, grounding herself in the steady warmth beneath her palm.

"How much did you hear?" she asks, her tone composed, almost clinical.

Max steps fully into the stall now, letting the door fall shut behind him. Dust shifts in the filtered afternoon light. He doesn’t crowd her. He doesn’t reach for her.

"Enough," he says.

The single word settles heavily between them.

Scarlett exhales slowly through her nose, eyes fixed on the worn leather halter hanging against the wall. She had expected anger. Or pride. Or that infuriatingly easy smirk he wears like armor. She had expected him to deflect it, to laugh it off, to turn it into something lighter than it was.

Instead, there is only steadiness.

"I’m not your ceiling," he says after a moment.

The words aren’t defensive. They aren’t wounded. They’re certain.

"And I’m not something that weakens you."

That makes her turn.

Really turn.

He’s leaning lightly against the wooden partition, but there’s nothing casual about him now. His jaw is set, eyes clearer than she’s ever seen them - no performance, no flirtation, no arrogance. Just resolve.

"You make it harder," she admits, the confession leaving her before she can stop it.

It feels like surrender.

Max’s brow furrows slightly, not in offense but in concentration. "Harder how?"

Scarlett swallows, her composure thinning at the edges. She searches for a precise answer, something clean and strategic. Instead, what comes out is messy and honest.

"Harder to focus," she says quietly. "Harder to ignore things. Harder to separate what I want from what I’m supposed to want."

The words hang in the air, fragile and irreversible.

She looks away from him then, because looking at him makes it worse. Makes it real. Her entire life has been constructed around clarity—around defined goals and measurable success. There has never been room for confusion.

Max pushes off the partition and steps closer, slow enough that she could retreat if she chose to.

She doesn’t.

"Good," he says softly.

The response catches her off guard. Her gaze snaps back to his.

"Good?" she echoes.

"You’re not supposed to be a machine, Scarlett." His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something fierce beneath it. "You’re allowed to want things that don’t come with a trophy."

The simplicity of it almost undoes her.

She shakes her head slightly, frustration and fear tangling together inside her chest. "You don’t understand," she murmurs. "If he thinks you’re a distraction, he’ll make sure you are."

There it is - the real fear. Not that she’ll lose. Not that she’ll disappoint.

That her father will dismantle anything that threatens his control.

Max studies her in silence for a long moment. She can almost see the shift behind his eyes, the way the easy charm gives way to something sharper, more deliberate.

"Then let him try," he says at last.

It isn’t reckless bravado. It isn’t the cocky grin of a boy who thinks he’s untouchable. It’s quiet defiance.

Scarlett feels her resolve falter.

He doesn’t know how her father operates. He doesn’t know how thoroughly, how strategically, how patiently he dismantles obstacles. He doesn’t know how many years Scarlett has spent perfecting herself just to stay ahead of disappointment.

Her father doesn’t raise his voice.

He removes options.

The silence in the stall thickens, not uncomfortable but charged - like the moment before a jump when the world narrows to a single line and there is no turning back.

For the first time since arriving at Walden, the arena does not feel like the most dangerous place on campus.

It’s this space.

This fragile, unmeasured space between who she was trained to be and who she might become if she lets herself want something beyond perfection.

Scarlett has spent her entire life believing discipline is protection.

But standing there with Max only inches away, feeling the pull of something she cannot quantify or control, she begins to understand the cost of that protection.

And for the first time, she isn’t certain which loss would be worse -

Disappointing her father.

Or walking away from the only person who has ever made her question whether winning is enough.