Page 41 of Captivated

A thought rose unbidden in Zeeb’s mind.

Who broke you, Nate? And what were you like before they did?

He wanted to say something, anything to ease the weight Nate carried. But any words Zeeb could utter felt flimsy in the face of whatever pain he suffered.

And heissuffering.Of that, Zeeb was in no doubt.

In the end, he did what he did best.

He offered his presence.

“Ready when you are,” Zeeb said. “I’ll be right here the whole time.”

Nate nodded, stiffly at first, then with more purpose. He moved to the mounting block with the awkward precision of someone trying not to mess up. Zeeb stayed at his side, guiding without intruding.

As Nate swung a leg over the saddle and settled in, Zeeb saw it—the brief widening of his eyes, the surge of breath as if the wind had knocked something loose in him.

“You okay?” Zeeb rested his hand on Sorrel’s bridle.

Nate didn’t speak at first. He just sat there, his hands clenching on the reins, staring at the horizon. Finally, a whisper fell from his lips.

“It’s the first time I’ve felt taller than the weight.”

Zeeb’s chest ached. He wasn’t sure what Nate’s words meant, but it felt like a positive comment.

“That’s good,” he said.

Nate studied him then, his usual mask gone, and in its place was raw, guarded curiosity, as though he was deciding if Zeeb was for real.

Zeeb held his gaze, steady and patient.

Nate didn’t look away.

Zeeb never stood too close. Not physically, at least—he kept a respectful distance. But emotionally, there was something about him that made Nate feel exposed, as if the man could see all the pieces he kept hidden under layers of silence.

And Zeeb never pushed. That was worse, somehow. Nate was used to people who demanded things of him: his father, the camp counselors, even the therapists who thought tears were some kind of victory. But Zeeb just stood there with those damn steady eyes, as though he was offering Nate a way out instead of another trap.

That scared the hell out of him.

“Ready to move?” Zeeb gestured to the halter. “I can walk him around the paddock, until you get used to the feelin’.

Nate nodded. “That would be good.” He realized how high he was sitting, a thing he hadn’t foreseen, despite Sorrel’s height.

Zeeb led Sorrel out into the center of the paddock, Sorrel moving beneath him like a river, smooth, steady, and sure of its course. Nate kept his back straight, his hands light on the reins like Zeeb had shown him, but his heart was thudding as if it hadn’t caught on that this was supposed to be calming.

Little by little he noticed more details: the sunlight brilliant as it hit the windows of the house high on the hill, the sound of birds chirping in the distance. And yet, all Nate could focus on was how his body felt on the horse: foreign, vulnerable, exposed.

“You’re doing great,” Zeeb said from beside him, walking easily at Sorrel’s shoulder.

Nate wanted to scoff, but the words didn’t come. He didn’tfeelgreat. He felt like a cracked mirror, reflecting enough to look whole but sharp in all the wrong places.

Sorrel kept walking, patient and calm. And Zeeb? He stayed there. Not pushing. Not pulling.

Just… there.

Maybe that was what was getting to Nate more than anything. The way Zeeb showed up. No performance. No masks. Nothing but steady hands and quiet strength. The kind of presence Nate had only ever found in books or imagined during sleepless nights, in those rare as fuck moments when he still believed—still prayed—people like Zeeb existed.

They circled the paddock once, then again. Nate’s breathing began to slow. He didn’t realize how tense his shoulders were until they started to relax.

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