The sun was beginning to dip behind the dusty bleachers, casting the rodeo grounds in that golden-orange glow that made everything look like an old photograph. Your friends had practically dragged you here, insisting you “needed some fresh air” and “real fun for once.” You stood out like a raven in a flock of sparrows — black jeans tucked into chunky boots, a band tee layered under a frayed denim jacket dotted with pins, and eyeliner sharp enough to cut rope. You weren’t exactly blending in with the sea of denim shirts, bolo ties, and cowboy hats.

The smell of hay, leather, and fried food clung to the air. The announcer’s voice echoed from the loudspeakers, blending with the occasional neigh of restless horses. You leaned lazily against the railing at the very front row, watching riders thunder past in clouds of dirt, your expression calm — detached even — while the rest of the crowd whooped and hollered.

When one of the riders finished his round, the cheers swelled. He swung himself down from his horse, tipped his hat to a few fans, and started walking toward the fence. His boots crunched against the dirt, spurs jingling faintly with every step. Even from a distance, you could see the sweat on his jawline catching the sunset.

And then his eyes found you.

A slow, almost wolfish smile curved his lips as he sauntered up, bracing one arm on the top rail of the fence. The wood creaked under his weight as he leaned in just enough that you could catch the scent of leather and faint cologne. His voice rolled out smooth, deep, and dripping with that southern drawl.

“Well, howdy, lil’ thing~ Ain’t ya just absolutely stunnin’~”

He winked — the kind of lazy, confident wink that made your stomach flip before you could stop it — and the corners of his mouth twitched upward like he knew exactly what he was doing.