The stable aisle smells of hay and leather, the chill from the morning frost still clinging to the boards beneath her boots. Arasael shifts as Scarlett approaches, dark ears flicking forward, eyes softening in recognition. She unlatches the stall door with precise fingers and steps inside, her movements deliberate, almost ritualistic. The world outside—the crowd, the judges, her father—slipped into distant echoes.

She presses her forehead to the curve of his neck. His breath was warm against her temple, steady. For a single heartbeat, everything is still.

From the shadows of the aisle, Max stops. He doesn’t step into the stall; he doesn’t need to. He simply leans against the post, his gaze fixed on her.

“You don’t have to let him speak to you like that,” he says, voice low enough for her alone to hear.

Scarlett straightens, sliding her gloved hands down Arasael’s sleek coat. “It was a critique,” she says, calm, precise.

“It was a warning,” Max says. His eyes, quiet but sharp, trace the line of her shoulder, the tension in her jaw. “Not encouragement. Control.”

Silence stretches, heavy but fragile. Arasael lowers his head toward Max, ears swiveling, nostrils flaring slightly. Scarlett’s eyes follow the movement. The gelding exhaled softly, a puff of mist in the cold air.

Max reaches out slowly, deliberately, giving the horse space, and rests a hand against Arasael’s neck. The gelding tilts into the touch without hesitation, muscles relaxing under the careful pressure. Scarlett’s throat tightens, an unfamiliar knot she refuses to name.

“He trusts you,” Max says quietly, almost a statement to himself.

Scarlett keeps her voice measured. “He trusts consistency.”

Max’s gaze lifts, meeting hers across the stall. “That isn’t the same thing."

Scarlett straightens, forcing her shoulders back, but her fingers linger on Arasael’s mane, smoothing it with a careful rhythm that calmed them both. The stable is quiet, save for the soft scrape of hooves against wood and the occasional distant snort from neighboring stalls. Even in this calm, she feels it—the lingering weight of her father’s words, pressing on her chest like a winter wind.

Max’s eyes never leave her. He doesn’t step closer, but there is no mistaking the intensity of his attention. “You carry it all too neatly,” he says softly, voice low enough to vibrate only in the small space between them. “Every ride, every breath—it’s all to hold it in.”

Scarlett’s jaw tightens. She looks away, down at Arasael’s broad, gleaming neck. “That’s… my choice,” she says, careful. Every word precise, measured. She can feel his scrutiny as keen as a blade.

Max tilts his head, studying her as though trying to read what she refuses to write on her face. “Is it choice, or is it survival?”

The stall seems smaller suddenly, the air between them taut with a quiet confrontation neither spoke aloud. Arasael shifts again, brushing his muzzle against her arm. The gelding’s warm breath was grounding, a tether Scarlett didn’t even know she needed. She exhales slowly, just enough to let a fraction of her guard drop.

Max’s gaze softens—not mocking, not teasing—but patient, probing. “You think being perfect protects you,” he continues quietly, “but all it does is weigh you down.”

Her hand pauses mid-stroke, resting against Arasael’s mane. She doesn’t look at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He allows a small smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe not,” he admits. “But I can see it. And I can see how much you’ve carried alone.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. Outside the stall, the morning sun has began to pierce the frosted windows, streaks of pale light across the straw-strewn floor. Dakota’s distant whinny from across the aisle echos softly, lively and unrestrained, a sharp contrast to Arasael’s controlled, measured presence.

Scarlett’s chest tightens at the sound, a subtle reminder of Max’s world: effortless energy, trust, freedom. Something she has never allowed herself to feel. And yet… here he is, calm, steady, seeing her without judgment, without expectation.

Her fingers tighten briefly on Arasael’s mane before releasing, allowing the gelding’s warmth and weight to steady her own. She finally lifts her gaze. “And what if I can’t let go?” Her voice is almost a whisper, a crack in the carefully built walls she has carried for so long.

Max doesn’t answer immediately. He steps a fraction closer—not enough to crowd, but enough to bridge a space neither of them had dared cross before. His hand hovers near the doorframe, poised, patient. “Then I’ll wait,” he responds softly. “Because you don’t have to carry it all alone.”

Scarlett’s chest tightens again, her perfectly sculpted composure faltering ever so slightly. For the first time this morning, she allows herself a thought she quickly tries to push away: perhaps there is a way to ride—not for perfection, not for her father, but for herself.

Arasael exhales against her shoulder, small steam rising in the cold air. Dakota whinnies again, sharp and bright, and for a fleeting moment, Scarlett feels the world outside the arena fade completely. Here, in the quiet, she can almost imagine a space where expectation doesn’t exist, where mistakes are forgiven, and trust—genuine trust—is possible.

And Max, silent and steady, watches her discover it.

Her jaw tightens, shaking her head at the thought. She doesn’t look at him. “You wouldn’t understand,” she murmurs, almost under her breath.

A small, teasing grin tugs at the corner of Max’s mouth, soft but not mocking. “Maybe I don’t. But I can see it,” he says. “And I can see how serious you take yourself.”

Scarlett presses her fingers into Arasael’s mane, letting a fraction of tension slip through. Arasael shifts against her shoulder, exhaling softly, a mist rising in the cold stable air.

Max’s grin widens just a little. “You know,” he says, voice low, playful, “for someone who rides like she’s trying to survive a war, you sure make that look good.”

Scarlett freezes. Heat flares across her cheeks. She doesn’t look up. “I don’t need your approval,” she snaps, though her voice lacks its usual crisp edge.

Max chuckles, quiet, patient. “I never said you did,” he says. “I just… thought it was worth mentioning.”

Scarlett strokes Arasael’s neck, tracing the short mane, trying to anchor herself in the routine of brushing. Max leans against the stall frame, watching quietly, but there’s a faint smirk tugging at his lips, the kind that promises he might say something if he feels like it.

“You know,” he starts, voice soft, teasing just enough to catch her attention, “if anyone else saw you right now, they’d think you were… contemplative. Maybe even relaxed.”

Scarlett freezes mid-stroke. “I am not relaxed,” she says, sharp, but the words land flat against the quiet.

Max tilts his head, unfazed. “Sure,” he says. “Contemplative, then. Deep in thought about—what? The perfect stride? The third element? Half a stride?” He gestures vaguely toward the arena behind them.

Scarlett clenches her jaw, her fingers tightening briefly on Arasael’s mane before loosening. “You think you know everything,” she says, low, controlled, trying to mask the way his voice has unsettled her.

Max steps a little closer, careful not to crowd. He rests a hand on the stall door, watching her, his expression still teasing but softer now. “I know you carry too much,” he says. “And you make it look so… effortless that no one notices. But I do.”

Scarlett doesn’t respond. She bends over Arasael’s neck again, pressing her forehead against him. The warmth of the horse calms her, slows the racing thoughts in her head. Outside, Dakota whinnies. The bright, lively note echoes down the aisle, a sharp contrast to Arasael’s measured, gentle exhale.

Max chuckles quietly. “Your horse here,” he says, nodding toward Arasael, “he likes you more than I do. That’s unfair, you know.”

Scarlett lifts her head, glancing at him sideways. “I assure you, he doesn’t like anyone more than he likes me.”

“Is that so?” Max says, stepping just a little closer, leaning casually but not intrusively. “Because when I reached out… he leaned in. Trusting me completely. Maybe I should start giving lessons in humility.”

Scarlett’s lips twitch, but she forces them into a straight line. She doesn’t look at him fully, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of her smile. Yet her fingers linger longer on Arasael’s mane, softer this time, almost thoughtful.

Max watches the subtle shift, smirk softening. “See?” he says lightly. “Even your horse thinks you can take a breath once in a while.”

Scarlett exhales, slow, deliberate, letting the warmth from Arasael and the quiet stable seep into her bones. For a moment, she imagines stepping away from the expectations—the podiums, her father’s gaze, every measure of perfection she’s been told to carry. She imagines riding just for the joy of it, for the bond with her horse, for herself.

Max tilts his head, reading the shift in her posture, the subtle release in her hands. “That’s all I’m saying,” he murmurs. “Sometimes, letting go… doesn’t mean failing.”

Scarlett doesn’t answer immediately. She doesn’t need to. The thought is dangerous, thrilling. Unfamiliar.

Arasael nudges her gently, warm breath against her cheek. Dakota whinnies again from across the aisle, vibrant, unrestrained. Scarlett finally allows herself the tiniest hint of a smile, almost imperceptible, just enough for Max to see it, even if he doesn’t comment.

And Max, patient as ever, watches her discover it—a crack in the armor, quiet, but undeniable.

Scarlett slides the stall door closed behind her, the click echoing softly in the quiet of the next morning. Arasael shifts, impatient, pawing once at the straw, nostrils flaring. She lifts the saddle from the rack, the familiar weight grounding her.

“Careful,” Max says lightly from across the aisle, leaning casually against a post. “I’d hate for you to look like you’re having fun.”

Scarlett glances at him, irritation flickering across her face. “I’m not,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

Before she can mount, her father’s shadow falls across the doorway. The air stiffens, colder than the frost clinging to the boards beneath her boots.

“Max,” he says, his tone smooth but firm. “Step aside. This is between Scarlett and me.”

Max straightens, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Yes, sir,” he murmurs, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though it fades quickly under the weight of her father’s gaze.

Scarlett swallows, the tension snapping around her chest. She forces her back straight, her shoulders squared as if the armor she always wears can keep the cold words at bay. Her fingers tighten on Arasael’s mane.

“Mount,” her father commands, voice low but absolute. “I want to see your form.”

“Yes, sir,” she says, the words clipped, precise. Every syllable a practiced response.

She slides into the saddle, the leather cool beneath her, the stirrups just so. Arasael shifts beneath her, obedient and steady, absorbing her tension. She rides to the center of the arena, forcing every movement to be perfect, polished, controlled. Not for herself. Not for Max. For him.

Max steps back, watching, smirk returning ever so slightly. “Careful,” he says, quieter this time, teasing under his breath. “Don’t make it look like you’re enjoying it, or he’ll notice.”

Scarlett doesn’t answer. She doesn’t want to. Her father’s gaze weighs on her like iron. Every stride is precise. Every landing smooth. Every movement calculated to erase any hint of flaw.

“Half a stride late at the third element,” he says softly, low enough that only she hears. “Focus must be absolute.”

Her hands tighten imperceptibly on the reins. Arasael feels it, stiffening slightly beneath her. She corrects, tiny adjustments that make every jump seem effortless. Not a hair out of place. Not a thought wasted.

“You are capable of more,” her father continues, voice smooth, sharp. “And if I see distraction again, I will remove the variable.”

Scarlett’s stomach knots. She knows who the variable is. Her chest tightens, and her jaw sets. She forces herself into perfect posture, every movement a mask of control.

Across the arena, Max tilts his head, lips twitching. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t interfere, but his eyes track her, sharp and observant. Even so, he lets her father have this.

She rides. Arasael responds to every subtle cue, his body an extension of her perfectionist will. Each jump is clean. Each landing precise. She is flawless, polished, untouchable.

The arena is silent except for hooves and breath, and for a brief, fleeting second, Scarlett almost forgets her father is there at all. Almost forgets herself.

Then she passes him on the way back toward the stall. He doesn’t say a word, just watches. She forces her head high, expression neutral.

Scarlett slides from the saddle, leather cool against her thighs, Arasael’s breath warm and steady against her cheek. Her father watches silently, expression unreadable, and the silence presses down like the weight of every expectation she’s carried since childhood. Her father approaches silently, observing dictatingly.

"Yes, sir?" she says, voice clipped, posture flawless. Every muscle trained to respond without hesitation. Her hands smooth Arasael’s mane with exacting care, every motion precise, controlled—perfect.

“You understand,” he continues, voice low, “that second place is not an option.”

She nods once. Absolutely, completely. There is no hesitation, no questioning. She has trained her mind to obey, her body to execute, her emotions to hide. Every small rebellion, every fleeting thought of freedom, is shoved back into the corners where it will do no damage.

Max stands across the aisle, leaning casually against the post, smirk fading. He watches her, silently noting the rigidity, the tension, the way she bends herself around someone else’s approval. He wants to speak, to remind her, to pull her back to herself—but he knows it is not his place. Not yet.

Scarlett turns Arasael toward the stall, every step deliberate. Her boots crunch against the straw, echoing in the quiet stable. She breathes in, shallow, precise, steadying herself. She is meticulous. She is flawless. She is… acceptable.

And yet, in the pit of her chest, a small, unwanted flicker lingers. A memory of Max’s teasing words, of Dakota’s effortless leaps, of Arasael’s warmth beneath her hands. She swallows it down. She cannot afford softness. Not here. Not now.

She hands the reins to the waiting stable hand with perfect composure, head held high. Her father nods once, satisfied, and Scarlett bows her chin slightly, just enough to show obedience, not submission.

The stable feels colder, emptier somehow. Max steps back, shoulders relaxed, watching her return to the world of order and expectation, knowing the walls are firmly in place once more. Scarlett walks past him, silent, precise, every movement calculated, every thought locked. The summit is still ahead, and she will reach it—because she must.

Perfection is the only path.