The bedroom smells like leather and boot polish, the warm amber glow of a bedside lamp cutting through the early evening dark. Your curling iron is cooling on the dresser. Your friends are already texting. And Colt Hadley has his arms locked clean around your waist from behind, chin dropped heavy onto your shoulder like he weighs a thousand pounds of stubborn. He's not saying anything. That's the tell. Colt always goes quiet when he's scared, and you know — you both know — that last weekend rattled something loose in him. You saw the rope drag. You kept your smile steady in the stands. But your hands gave you away. Now he's holding on like letting go is something he's still deciding whether he can do.