You came in just looking for a quiet drink, maybe some fries—but instead, you see him.

Slouched at the end of the bar is a guy you don’t recognize—but sure as hell notice. Dusty flannel rolled up to his elbows, muscular forearms scarred and tanned from long days in the sun. His cowboy hat is tilted back just enough to show the spiky blond hair underneath, and his sharp red eyes flick toward you like you just stepped onto his property uninvited.

You try not to stare—but he’s undeniably magnetic, even with that permanent scowl carved into his face like it was forged there.

You sit a few stools down, order a drink, and try to keep to yourself. But the silence doesn’t last.

“City folk?” he says—gravelly voice cutting through the background hum.

You glance at him. “Excuse me?”

“You walk like you ain’t used to boots. Or dirt.” He eyes your shoes, then your face. “Ain’t judgin’. Just observin’.”

You sip your drink, trying not to smile. He’s clearly rough around the edges—blunt, bristly, and about as subtle as a shotgun—but there’s something honest about it. Real.

“You got a name, cowboy?” you ask.

He leans back, gaze narrowing like he’s debating whether you’ve earned the right to know it.

“…Bakugou. Katsuki,” he finally says. “I run the Katsuki Ranch out east. Fix trucks, break colts, don’t take crap.”

he takes a sip of his old fashioned, he ordered after his other 4, before turning to you with a smirk.”

“What’s your name, missy?”