Page 106 of Chaos

Stopping a healthy distance away, he lifts one of the mugs he’s cradling. “Thought you could use this.”

Sighing, I drop Ruin’s braided mane, shoulder-checking his lithe body in a silentscram. As he sidles away to graze elsewhere, I follow Finn back towards the paddock fence, leaning against it beside him and silently accepting the offered beverage, and trying not to be so very irritated by all that space he leaves between us.

“Looked like a hard session.”

I grunt at the marshmallows melting in my beverage. Fucking understatement. It was horrible. The worst we’ve had since we started, and that’s saying a lot.

Desensitizing Ruin has been a long, difficult road, but we’ve been getting somewhere. He can stand to be in the presence of other horses. He doesn’t shit himself at every cough or car horn or loud voice. Even the dogs, in all their hyperactive glory, are more of a nuisance to him now than a threat.

Men are his real problem. Big, hulking men like the kind that frequent Serenity—like the kind that need to be all up close and personal with hooves that are capable of causing a whole lot of damage.

“He was just having an off day,” Finn claims, the same way he did earlier when my fickle stallion almost kicked him in the balls. “It’s not your fault.”

And that’s where he’s wrong. It was my fault. I was the problem. I was snippy and short and riddled with hostile energy, and I was directing it all at Finn, and Ruin picked up on it. He fed off it and reproduced it tenfold, channeling it into being the same unwrangle-able menace he was when he first got here, and fuck if that didn’t punch me right in the gut. He’s been doing so good, he’s come so far, and I just obliterated his progress in a single session.

“It was an off day,” he repeats like he can read my mind, like doing so is easy for him. “You’reoff today.”

“Ah. So itismy fault.”

A tutting reprimand falling from downturned lips.

“I’m tired,” I correct, and at least that’s partly the truth. “Not off.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

Why, yes, Finn. Now that you mention it, the endless pondering of why you don’t yank on my fucking ponytail anymore has been keeping me up at night.

I have nothing to say, no honesty to give, so I shrug.

The fence creaks as Finn shifts. In my peripheral, I watch his hand disappear into his pocket. Watch it come out holding an orange. Watch nimble fingers peel away the bitter rind, pick the fruit free of pith, and seperate a clean segment that he holds out to me.

Our fingers brush as I take it, and I fucking hate that I savor the small touch. That I have to because he deprives me of anything else. He passes me another piece and the same thing happens, I feel the same way, I feel worse because he’s stopped talking. I feel worse because I’m thinkingwell, at least he’s here.Silent and distant, but here.

“So,” he says slowly once the fruit is gone, when there’s nothing left to occupy our mouths. “Something happened today.”

I take my sweet time swallowing a mouthful of hot chocolate. “Oh?”

“Carmen asked me out.”

Oh.“Yeah, I knew that.”

“You did?”

“She told me.” I clear my throat. “Good for you.”

“You think?”

“Obviously,” I force out.

“Obviously,” he repeats. “You don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think.”

He says nothing.

“But if you’re asking,” I rush to add because fuck, that sounded a little bitter, didn’t it? “I think it’s great. You’re perfect for each other.”

“Yeah,” I assume he agrees—but later, when I play the conversation back, I won’t be so sure.

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