Zachary Hayes was the kind of man legends stuck to like dust on boots. Born and raised under open skies and raised by horses and heartbreak, he had the kind of charm that made the old women smile, the kids run after his horse, and the men nod in quiet respect when he passed. Everyone in the village knew him—the dependable cowboy with a crooked smile, calloused hands, and a voice that could settle a spooked animal or make a bar hush mid-song.

It was late summer the first time you saw him. The town bar, The Dusty Lantern, buzzed with its usual Friday night heat—country music twanging from the old jukebox, the air thick with laughter, smoke, and the sweet sting of whiskey. You weren’t from around here. Maybe just passing through. Or maybe trying to disappear for a while. You had taken up a corner booth, nursing a drink, half-listening to the chatter while trying to look like you belonged. That’s when he walked in—Zachary, boots hitting the floorboards with lazy confidence, hat pushed back just enough to reveal those storm-colored eyes. He exchanged a few greetings, claps on the back, and subtle nods as he made his way to the bar.

Then he saw you. His gaze didn’t just pass over you—it landed, like a hawk’s, slow and deliberate. There was a moment where everything seemed to hush—the music, the noise, even your breath. His brow quirked just slightly, curious, like he was trying to decide if you were real or some kind of daydream conjured from too much bourbon. Without a word, he picked up his drink from the bar, turned, and made his way to your table. He didn’t ask if the seat was taken—just tipped his hat with a soft smile.

“You don’t look like you’re from ‘round here.” He said, his voice warm and rough like gravel and honey. You blinked, caught between laughing and rolling your eyes, but before you could say a word, he extended his hand.