As I’m locking the door to the studio, I hear a soft, whispering voice echoing down the hall. Shoving the key into the pocket of my green and white striped drawstring pajama pants, I cross my arms across my chest to cover up the fact that I’m wearing a tank top and no bra. I came out here in the middle of the night in my pajamas specifically because I knew no one would be in the stables.

Coming to the end of the long, dimly lit hallway, I quickly round the corner with an irritated scowl on my face, my flip-flops smacking against the cement floor. I should probably just sneak back up to the house and attempt to fall asleep, but my curiosity has gotten the better of me, wondering which one of the workers is out here at such a late hour. Hopefully none of the mares are sick. I don’t need my mother catching wind of it from the property manager and ordering it to be put down without bothering to call the vet, just like the last time. She usually never bothers with the stables, the horses, or the barn staff, unless she feels like her control around this place is slipping and she needs to prove the point that she’s still in charge. With everything that’s happened in the last few months, I wouldn’t put it past her to do something stupid where the horses are concerned just to make herself feel powerful.

As soon as I turn the next corner into the main stable area, my body comes to an abrupt halt. My stomach drops down to my toes, my shaking arms fall limply to my sides, and my chest begins to ache like it’s made of glass and someone just took a sledgehammer to it. I would recognize him anywhere, even with all the time that has passed and what he must have gone through for all of those years in captivity. I feel like I’m standing in a dream, unable to believe what I’m seeing. The edges of my vision blur and I feel like if I lift my foot to try and walk, it will feel like I’m sinking in quicksand, unable to move, unable to get closer and reassure myself that I’m really awake and this isn’t a dream. How many times did I wish for a moment like this? One moment in time where he was standing right here in front of me, alive and breathing and smiling. Just a few seconds where I could look at his face, watch a dimple pop out of his cheek, and not have it disappear like a puff of smoke when I woke up.

“I missed you, Belle. My pretty girl…I missed you something awful. Have they been feeding you enough sugar cubes?”

The black Arabian snorts, butting her head against the forehead of the man in front of her, and he chuckles softly. The sound hits me like a bolt of lightning, making my scalp tingle and my heart beat double time. I squeeze my hands into fists as hard as I can, my fingernails digging into my palms, the pain reminding me this isn’t a dream. He’s really here, standing in front of me, smiling, talking, breathing…alive.

I stand here in complete silence, my legs refusing to move even though if they did, I don’t know if I’d want them to take me out of here as fast as possible, or race me toward the man speaking in hushed tones to the beautiful beast in front of him.

If I could find my voice, I’d tell him the animal he’s petting isn’t his beloved Belle, who died the year after he left. She died giving birth to the animal he’s currently showering with attention. It would break his heart to know that isn’t Belle, always his favorite among the thirty or so horses we own. He raised her and helped train her when she came to this plantation, a wild and unforgiving horse who wouldn’t let anyone near her until she heard his soft commands and felt his gentle touch.

My vision blurs with tears as I stand perfectly still, taking him in from the top of his short, spiky dark hair to the tips of his scuffed cowboy boots. The arm he holds up to pet the side of the horse’s neck flexes as he runs his hand down her flank, his bicep no longer large enough to snap a tree trunk in half, but with enough muscle definition that I can see it from where I stand, a hundred yards away. He’s not as skinny as he was that day I saw him on the news, but he’s also no longer the hulking beast of a man he was six years ago. He’s lean, with just enough muscle definition to fill out the shirt and worn, tattered pair of jeans encasing his long legs.

I stare at him through my tears, drinking in every inch of him, wondering if at any minute I’m going to wake up and this is all going to be a dream. Him being alive, and home, and within touching distance.

I want to call out his name and see if saying it out loud breaks the spell.

I want to run into his arms and see if I can feel them wrapped around me or if he’ll disappear as soon as I get to him, like a puff of smoke.

I want to turn and leave these stables, forget that I ever saw him and pretend like standing here right now isn’t breaking every piece of me apart all over again, knowing I can never have what I want.

His face turns slightly in my direction as the horse tries to head butt him again, and that’s when I see the scar that runs down his clean-shaven cheek from the corner of one eye to his jaw, which looks like it came from a knife. I choke back a sob and tightly press my hand to my mouth when I notice his nose is slightly crooked, most likely from being broken more than once. My eyes travel the length of his arm and I see an assortment of faded scratches and scars dotting his forearm as he continues to whisper and pet the horse in front of him.

Everything he’s been through, things I’ll never know or understand, hits me like a ton of bricks, threatening to make my knees give out from under me. I’m standing here feeling sorry for myself when this man literally went through hell and came back from the dead.

He’s here. He’s alive.

No matter how tightly I clamp my hand over my mouth, I can’t keep the muffled sob from escaping and his head whips in my direction. His deep brown eyes lock on to mine and his hand slowly drops from the side of the horse as he turns to face me fully.

I want to run to him.

I want to run away and hide.

“Legs,” he whispers softly.

So softly I almost don’t hear it over the thunderous beating of my heart, but my eyes are locked on to his lips and I see his mouth form the words, the nickname making me wince and die a little bit more inside.

“Are you real?” He speaks softly, his eyes widening in wonder as he takes a tentative step toward me.

I’ve wished for this moment, every day for six years, and now I just want to close my eyes and disappear. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to know anything about the woman I am now. I want to click my heels together like Dorothy and go back to the way it was before. I want to close my eyes and go back to a time when everything was easy and perfect and I was worthy of the amazement shining in his eyes as he stares at me and takes another step toward me. I don’t care about the pain he caused me, I don’t care about the heart that he broke, I don’t care about all the reasons why, I just want to hold on to him and never let go.

As much as I want to run in the opposite direction, I can’t do it no matter how hard I try. Being in the same room with him has always made me feel like we were magnets, unable to deny the pull and unable to do anything but slam together as soon as we were close enough. My feet move before I even realize they’ve remembered how. We move toward each other, our eyes never breaking their hold, both of us picking up the pace at the same time until we’re running, unable to stop the magnetic tug now that we’re this close. Now that we both know this is real, it’s not a dream, and we’re both really here, together.

Our bodies collide, my arms flying around his neck, his arms wrapping securely around my waist, both of us clinging to the other like at any minute something will try and rip us apart. He smells like soap and fresh hay and I breathe him in as I bury my face in the side of his neck, letting the smell take me back six years ago when everything was easy and perfect and amazing. His arms tighten around me, so tight I can barely breathe, but I don’t even care. I don’t need to breathe when he’s my oxygen and everything I need to live.

“Fucking hell, Legs,” he whispers brokenly as I squeeze my eyes closed to keep the tears at bay.

He nuzzles his face into my hair and breathes deep, cursing again under his breath.

“Peaches. Fucking peaches…goddammit, I missed this.”

I’m dying.

I’m suffocating.

I’ll never survive this.

“Am I dreaming? Fuck, tell me I’m not dreaming,” he mutters. “You feel so warm and so real and so perfect.”

I sob against the skin of his neck, the tears falling so fast and so hard that I don’t know how I’ll ever get them to stop. I take a deep breath, one last smell of his clean skin. I hug him tighter, one last touch of his warm body against mine, one last second of feeling his heart beating with mine. I take it all in and shove it into the compartment in my brain reserved just for him, where I can take it out whenever I want and remember this moment. This one moment where I could pretend, for just a few seconds, that this could be my life. Wrapped up in this man who went through hell and found his way back to me.

My arms slide from around his neck and I press my palms to his chest, pushing against it gently until he finally loosens his hold and lets me move back. I feel the loss of his warmth immediately, my skin pebbling with goose bumps, and I tell myself this is how it has to be. I remind myself that I can live through the cold as long as he’s okay.

I can’t handle the questioning look in his eyes when I take another step back from the comfort of his arms, still suspended in the air, held out for me and just waiting for me to fit back inside them. Swiping the tears from my cheeks, I lift my chin and put the mask back in place before crossing my arms in front of me.

“Legs?” he whispers in confusion, taking a step toward me to try and close the distance I’ve created.

My hand comes up between us and he stops immediately.

“Please, don’t call me that.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw when I speak, firmly and with authority, all signs of the relieved and weepy woman from moments ago long gone.

“I know this is crazy and you probably have a thousand questions. I shouldn’t have just shown up here like this, but I didn’t think you’d be here,” he says, his arms finally dropping to his sides when he realizes I’m not going back into them.

“Of course I’d be here. I live here.”

His mouth drops open in shock and he slides one of his hands through his short hair, something he always used to do when I said or did something that pissed him off.

I’m sorry, oh, God I’m so sorry.

“What the fuck do mean you live here? You mean you’re just visiting, right? You live in New York, like you planned, and you’re just here for a visit. Tell me you’re just here for a visit, Legs.”

I let out a frustrated breath, my fingernails digging into the skin of my arms to stop myself from screaming.

“Don’t call me that!” I shout angrily, hating myself for yelling at him, but unable to stop the hurt and animosity I feel whenever I so much as think of that name. Hearing it from his lips, after all this time, will break me in two. If I hear it one more time, I will crumple into a ball on this floor and never be able to get up again.

I take another deep, calming breath, looking at a spot over his shoulder. I can’t look at him and do this. I can’t see the eyes I’ve dreamed about, the mouth I’ve wished to kiss more times than I can count, and the face my hands are dying to touch and do what I have to do without breaking down.

“I’m sorry, fuck, I’m sorry,” he speaks softly. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve thought of this moment every day for six fucking years, and now that you’re here, standing in front of me, I don’t know what the fuck to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I cut him off. “And you don’t have to apologize for anything. I’m glad you’re okay. I’m glad you made it back to your family. Your sister must be so relieved to have you home.”

He tries again to move toward me, and I take another step back.

“Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on,” he urges, dipping his head down to try and get me to look at him. “What happened to New York? Are you just taking some time off? Did you knock their socks off and they couldn’t handle how bad you made everyone look?”

He laughs softly at his own joke and I dig my nails harder into my skin.

“New York didn’t happen, okay? It was just a stupid dream. I work for my mother as her assistant,” I tell him quickly, hoping he’ll drop it and let me leave with a tiny shred of dignity.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mumbles irritably, one hand flying through his short, spiky hair again. “You were supposed to get away from here. The only reason I left was so you could get away from here and away from her. The only thing that kept me going all of these fucking years was knowing you were out there, living your dream and happy. What the fuck happened, Shelby?”

And I thought hearing him call me by my nickname cut like a knife. My name flying out of his mouth in anger and disappointment hurts a hell of a lot worse.

I’m sorry, oh, God I’m so sorry.

“Life happened, Eli!” I shout. “You weren’t here and life happened! Things got messy and dreams got broken and I moved on!”

“You didn’t move on, you fucking gave up! You had everything right there for the taking and you gave up because of HER! The minute I leave, you turn into one of her little sheep! How the fuck could you just give up, Shelby? Goddammit, how could you throw it all away?”

I move farther away from him, each step hurting worse than the one before when all I want to do is tell him. Tell him everything, show him everything, and make him see I had no choice, but I can’t, because he’s right. I gave up. I threw my life away and I gave up because I didn’t care about anything but him. My happiness meant nothing if his name was being dragged through the mud and his sister’s life was ruined because my mother couldn’t handle not being in control of everything around her, including me.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I tell him through clenched teeth. “You’ve been gone for six years and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that happened to you, but I’m not sorry for the choices I’ve made. I have a good and happy life now and I’ve moved on.”

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me. I’m not happy, I hate this life that I’m barely living.

“Bullshit. You didn’t move on. You stayed in the exact same fucking place, never moving forward because you were too goddamn scared to take that leap. The only way I managed to stay alive in that fucking hellhole for five years was knowing you jumped, when all along, you stayed here and turned into her.”

I’m dying.

I'm suffocating.

I’m sorry.

I say the last two words out loud, so quietly I’m not even sure he hears them, before I turn and walk away from him. I wait until my back is to him before I let the tears start to fall again. I hear him calling my name, but he doesn’t come after me.

He lets me go, just like he did six years ago.

It’s what I deserve. He lived through hell hoping he’d come back to the same woman he left behind, maybe to apologize, probably to make amends for how he left me, but that’s impossible.

That woman died a long time ago, along with her dreams, and it was all for him. Everything was always for Eli, and seeing him alive, knowing he’ll be okay as long as he stays away from me, reminds me that I made the right decision. Knowing his sister is happily married with a family of her own without my mother tainting their life in any way reminds me that I would make the same decisions all over again, even if it kills everything inside me.