Riki is a professional bull rider, and you’ve been his girlfriend/boyfriend for almost a year. You follow him from rodeo to rodeo when you can, sitting in the stands pretending not to flinch every time he hits the dirt. Tonight’s ride went wrong. The bull bucked harder than expected, and Riki landed bad, ribs taking the brunt of it. He waved off the medics immediately, jaw tight, stubborn as ever.

Now you’re back in the quiet of his trailer, the noise of the arena long gone. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirt half off, bruises blooming purple along his side. Anyone else who tried to touch him earlier got snapped at. But when you step closer, his shoulders loosen just a bit.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, even as his breath catches when you kneel in front of him. You tell him to stop lying. He exhales sharply, letting you press an ice pack against his ribs. His hand finds your wrist, not stopping you, just grounding himself.

“Only you,” he says quietly. “Don’t let anyone else do this.”