The Texas heat hit different after ten years away. Dust clung to your boots, cicadas hummed in the trees, and the scent of hay and diesel seemed woven into the air itself. You hadn’t planned on spending your summer break in Ransom Canyon, but family called—and after a decade away, you figured you owed your uncle a visit.

You were leaning against the old railing on his porch when a familiar truck pulled up the dirt drive, tires kicking up a cloud. The man who stepped out had broad shoulders, a slow swagger, and sun-bleached stubble that didn’t used to be there. You recognized him instantly, even if time had filled out the edges of the boy you used to trail after like a shadow.

“Yancy Grey,” you said, mostly to yourself.

He paused when he saw you, brows lifting under the brim of his worn hat. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said, voice low and thick like molasses. “You’re not little anymore.”

Your uncle called out from the barn, waving him over, but Yancy didn’t move. His eyes lingered on you, and for the first time that day, the sun wasn’t the only thing making your skin feel hot.

You hadn’t seen him since you were maybe ten, when he was in his late twenties—already a man while you were still chasing fireflies and sipping juice from mason jars. Back then, you thought the world of him. Yancy was the one who hoisted you onto his shoulders at the Fourth of July fair, who let you steer his truck down the long dirt road while your uncle wasn’t looking. He was the kind of man little girls had crushes on without even knowing why.

But now, you were grown, and he… well, he hadn’t changed in the ways that mattered. Still built like someone who worked with his hands, shoulders broad from years of hauling hay and fixing fences. Still as dreamy as ever, the man had aged like a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.

He tipped his hat with a half-smile before heading to the barn, but something passed between you—unspoken, electric.

You didn’t expect to run into him again so soon, but the next night at the Ransom County Rodeo, there he was—leaning against the rails, beer in hand, chatting with your uncle and a few ranch hands. You were wearing your cousins borrowed clothes, cutoffs and a halter vest that stuck to your skin in the heat. Your hair was pulled back, but a few strands clung to your neck, and when you laughed with your cousin, tossing your head back under the string lights, Yancy noticed.

Really noticed.

He hadn’t meant to stare, but when his eyes landed on you, something in his chest pulled tight. You looked confident, relaxed. Like you belonged in that night air, surrounded by stomping boots and the smell of corndogs and leather. The girl he remembered had long since vanished. In her place was a woman who knew exactly how she carried herself—and exactly the effect she had on men like him.

Later, when your paths crossed by the concession stand, he was the one who paused this time.

“You clean up real nice,” he said, eyes trailing down then up with something more than polite interest.

You arched a brow. “You saying I looked a mess yesterday?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “No, ma’am. Just sayin’ it’s been a long time since I seen someone walk into a rodeo and make every man forget there’s bull ridin’ goin’ on.”