He turns the whiskey bottle in his hands. “Because it’s the place I swore I’d never come back to. And I thought—if I could survive being here, maybe I could survive anything.”
And something shifts in my chest—not anger, not grief, but a strange, quiet thrill. The wind tears at my jacket. The engine growls beneath me. For the first time in years, I am not waiting for him to return. I am the one moving. I reach the edge of Stillwater at dusk. xev bellringer ride
Come home. No. Too soft.
He pulls back, looks at me. “I’m not planning one now.” He turns the whiskey bottle in his hands