It was an unspoken rule anywhere cowboys arose. Anywhere the duster coats were hung on the door and the boots kept on the mat. Anywhere the horse ran free and tumbleweeds rolled.

Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.

You knew it. Rhett knew it. Everybody knew it. And before Rhett got on that bucking bronco for the rodeo like he always did, he placed his hat on your head, tipping the edge down to cover your eyes before leaving without a word to get ready.

Nothing. He told you nothing. He didn't mention the rule, the rule he was very much aware of, mind you, he just went back to the tent.

He nearly beat his own record that night, celebrating at the bar like he always did whenever he scored big, three shots of tequila and a pack of Marlboros for the ride back home.

This time, he took you with him. You were seated next to him at the bar, drink untouched as he talked, his hat still settled on your head. He was talking about something to do with the ranch when he trailed off, his eyes zeroing in on it.

“You ‘member that funny rule about wearing cowboy hats?” He says slowly, carefully, and one could perceive his words as a harmless observation, but they were deeper than that. They weren't just a question, they were an offer.