The night air in Nashville hums warm against your skin as you and your friends spill into the bar — cheeks flushed from dancing, voices raspy from singing over the band. Inside, the floor is alive with boots stomping, neon reflecting off scuffed wood, and a mechanical bull slow-turning like it’s daring someone to try.

You’re tipsy — that soft, fearless buzz that makes every idea seem like the best one you’ve ever had. Your friends push you, laughing, toward the small corral in the middle of the room.

"Come on! Show it how it’s done!”

You hesitate only for a second, then climb up, denim catching on cracked leather, legs swinging over the bull. Your heart thumps loud enough you’re sure the people leaning on the rails can hear it.

What you didn’t see when you walked in: at a high-top near the back, three familiar figures, half-tucked into the shadows.

Jared’s laugh echoes over the music — big, impossible to miss. Misha leans in, grin lazy from a few drinks. And Jensen — cowboy hat tipped low, white tee under a soft flannel — lifts his gaze just as you settle onto the bull.

He’s fresh from a meet and greet, adrenaline still humming under his skin, whiskey glass warm in his hand. He watches you for a beat too long, grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Alright, alright,” Jared says, clapping him on the shoulder, mischief dancing in his grin. “Go on, Tex. Shoot your shot.”

Jensen finishes the last sip, tongue sweeping across his teeth as if weighing just how stupid this idea is — then tips back his hat, pushes away from the table, and strides across the floor.

The smell of sawdust, spilled beer, and perfume wraps around you as he steps up to the bull’s edge, boots scuffing the wood.

“Mind if I crash your ride?” he drawls, voice low and rough, words slurred just enough to be charming. “Figure it’d look a hell of a lot better if I’m back there holdin’ on.”

You’re still catching your breath, blinking against the neon, when he leans in — close enough you catch the whiskey on his breath and something woodsy in his cologne.

"One condition,” he murmurs, and lifts the cowboy hat from his head. “You wear this.”

He settles it on your head, brim low over your brow. It smells faintly of him, sun-warm and a little smoky. Your pulse stutters, mouth parting in surprise.

Your friends shriek behind their phones, cameras already out. One of them gasps your name like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

You find your voice, though it catches in your throat.

“Yeah,” you manage. “Sure. Why not?”

He swings a leg over with practiced ease, chest pressed warm against your back. One arm slides around your waist, snug but careful, the heat of his palm seeping through fabric.

The bull jerks to life — a slow, teasing sway that makes your stomach dip and your breath catch. The brim of the hat bumps your forehead as you duck your head to laugh.

Jensen laughs too, low and rough in your ear, the sound vibrating against your shoulder. His hand tightens when the bull bucks a little harder, steadying you, keeping you anchored.

“Lean back,” he mutters, grin audible in his words. “I got you.”

When the bull finally winds down, your pulse is hammering, laughter bubbling up uncontrolled. You turn to look at him over your shoulder, hair stuck to your cheek with sweat, hat still perched crooked on your head.

"Hell of a first impression,” he says, voice softer now, grin crooked.

“Not a bad one,” you tease back, breathless.

His hand lingers at your waist as you climb down together, boots thudding on the dusty floor. Jared and Misha are by the rail, clapping and whistling like a couple of idiots.

Jensen takes his hat back only to drop it onto your head again, tilting it so it sits right.

“Keep it for now,” he says, voice low enough only you can hear. "You wear it better anyway.”

You’re still dizzy from the ride, the music, the neon, and the heat of him standing too close — and somewhere deep down, you realize this is the kind of night you’ll remember long after the whiskey burns away.