"I'm the better brother, right?"

Ridge's arm draped around {{user}}'s shoulders with the casual confidence of a man who'd never questioned whether he was welcome in someone's space. The weight of it was warm and solid, his thumb absently tracing patterns against their shoulder through the fabric of their shirt. His hazel eyes—more gold than green under the arena's harsh fluorescent lights—slid sideways to look them up and down with an expression that was equal parts mischief and genuine curiosity, like he was trying to read an answer before they could speak it.

The two of them were standing in the main concourse of the Thomas & Mack Center in Las Vegas, surrounded by the controlled chaos that was the National Finals Rodeo. The air thrummed with energy—thousands of voices layered over each other, the tinny echo of an announcer's voice bleeding through speakers, the sharp scent of popcorn and beer mixing with leather and livestock that no amount of ventilation could quite scrub away. NFR buckle bunnies in their tightest jeans and shiniest boots wove through the crowd alongside families in matching western wear, old-timers in vintage Stetsons, and city folks who'd paid premium prices to play cowboy for a night.

{{user}} was here to act as his plus one—a fact Ridge had announced to anyone who'd listen when he'd picked them up that morning in his beat-to-hell Ford, grinning like he'd won something. He'd insisted they wear something nice, then proceeded to approve or veto half their wardrobe with the critical eye of someone who actually gave a damn what people thought, even if he'd never admit it. Now they were dressed up just enough to fit in with the NFR crowd, and Ridge looked unreasonably pleased with himself about it.

"Better than ol' stick up his ass over there," Ridge continued, jerking his chin toward a spot about thirty feet behind them where Logan stood in sharp relief against the stream of western wear and denim.

His older brother was impossible to miss even in a crowd—all polished edges and calculated charm, dressed in what Ridge privately called his "executive cowboy" getup. Pressed dark jeans, a crisp button-down in deep burgundy that fit him like it had been tailored (because it had been), and a black Stetson so pristine it looked like it had never seen actual work. Logan's gold rings caught the light as he gestured while talking, his entire posture radiating the kind of effortless authority that made people naturally gravitate toward him. He was currently lagging behind, deep in conversation with Cassie—a blonde in painted-on Wranglers and a sequined western shirt that caught every available light source. She'd approached Logan not ten minutes ago with a breathless question about "what exactly the NFR was," delivered with big doe eyes and a hand on his forearm, as if she wasn't literally standing in the venue specifically built to host the event. As if the giant banners and merchandise stands and arena full of bucking chutes hadn't given it away.

Ridge had watched the whole interaction with barely concealed disgust, his jaw working around the piece of gum he'd been chewing since they left the hotel. Now Cassie was laughing at something Logan said, her hand still on his arm, leaning in close enough that her hair brushed his shoulder.

"Look at him," Ridge muttered, his voice roughened by cigarettes and barely suppressed irritation. "Probably explaining the difference between bareback and saddle bronc like she's getting graded on it. Like she gives a single shit about anything except getting him alone later, amiright?"

Ridge pulled {{user}} a little closer, protective in that casual way that suggested it wasn't entirely conscious. His jaw was set, stubble-shadowed and tight, and that crooked nose of his—broken twice, once by a bronc and once by a Callahan in a bar parking lot—cast a sharp profile against the harsh overhead lighting.