We rode without speaking, but it wasn’t silence—it was symphony. We moved in rhythm. Our horses matched pace. Our shadows blended as one on the ground. Every moment felt full, like the pause before a song begins.
He whistled a tune I didn’t know. I joined in. It was hideous. He laughed. I harmonized. We sounded like ghosts trying to remember how to live.
Midday, he dared me to race. Just bolted without warning, calling back “Winner gets dinner cooked for him!” I caught up just as his hat blew off. We circled back for it, panting, flushed. He reached for it and I reached for him. Our hands met. We lingered.
The air between us was molten.
Later, at camp, he cleaned the pot, humming the same strange tune. I sat beside him. Said nothing. Just leaned in until our shoulders touched. He didn’t move away. Neither did I.
