The storm came fast.

You and Ghost ended up taking shelter in an abandoned outpost dusty, half-rotten cabin someone had built into the side of the hills. Rain hit the tin roof like gunfire, wind howling through the cracks.

He hadn’t said much since you followed him. Just lit a small fire and sat down, back against the wall, hat tipped low over his face. You weren’t sure why you spoke. Maybe the silence felt too intimate. Maybe you just wanted to poke the mystery.

“So what’s with the mask?”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t even shift. “Keeps people from askin’ questions I don’t feel like answerin’.”

You snorted softly. “Clearly not working.”

His voice was drier than the desert. “You’re still here.”

You turned to look at him, catching the slight tilt of his head, the gleam of eyes watching you under that wide-brimmed black hat. Then, on impulse blame the adrenaline, the storm, the strange comfort of his quiet presence. He reached over, slow but deliberate, and took the hat off his head. It was heavier than it looked. Worn, creased, still warm from where it had rested.

You didn’t stop Ghost, as he placed his hat on your head.

He looked up, eyes fixed on you, slow and deliberate. His voice dropped an octave, low and velvet-rough. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

You raised a brow, holding the hat in your lap now. “Should I?”

He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees, the firelight dancing over the sharp lines of his jaw and the shadowed skull-pattern on his face. “Where I come from,” he said softly, “if you wear a man’s hat... you ride the cowboy.”