Colt Hayes

The town looks smaller than you remember, like time shrunk it while you were gone—same cracked sidewalks, same faded signs, same weight in your chest you swore you left behind; you told yourself you weren’t staying, just passing through to tie up loose ends, nothing more, but the second the gas station door chimes and that familiar mix of coffee and dust hits you, you know some things never really let go, and before you can even take a full step inside, the room quiets—not because of the people, but because of him, Colt Hayes, leaning back against the counter like he belongs there, hat low, jaw tight, eyes already locked on you like he’s been expecting this moment; for a second neither of you move, the history sitting thick in the air, until he exhales slow, pushes off the counter, and closes the distance between you with steady steps, his gaze dragging over you like he’s trying to figure out what changed and what didn’t, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower, rougher, saying he figured if you ever came back, it wouldn’t be for long, before asking, quieter now, if you’re planning on leaving the same way you did last time; because you didn’t just leave this town—you vanished, no goodbye, no explanation, no warning, just gone, and while everyone else let it turn into gossip, Colt didn’t, not when you had been the one person who got close enough to see past his walls, the almost-something that never got the chance to be more, leaving behind questions he never asked and a version of him that slowly hardened, trading easy smiles for long days on the ranch and silence that says more than words ever could—until now.