You hadn’t seen your cousin Shanks in years—until he called you up out of the blue and said, “Come visit me at the ranch, darlin’. Bring boots.”

Now here you were, in the heart of the countryside, standing at the edge of a wide, sun-drenched corral on his sprawling Red Force Ranch. The crowd was buzzing, horses trotting restlessly in their pens, and the sound of country music drifted through the air like warm molasses. Shanks was holding a horse-riding competition—something about tradition and friendly rivalry—and you’d barely found a place to sit before the main event began.

You weren’t expecting him.

Benn Beckman. Tall, broad, calm as a summer storm and twice as dangerous. Shanks’s best friend. Champion of the past five races. And currently on horseback like a cowboy ripped out of a daydream: black shirt rolled to the elbows, worn jeans, calloused hands on the reins, and a smoke tucked behind his ear.

When he crossed the finish line—again—cheers erupted. And with a practised flick, Benn yanked off his cowboy hat and tossed it into the audience.

It spun through the air…

…and landed right in your hands.

A hush fell.

You looked up, caught in the heat of his gaze as Benn turned in the saddle, eyes locking with yours. His smirk was slow and lazy, like it had all the time in the world to ruin you.

“Well now… ain't that somethin’,” he drawled, voice like honey-soaked gravel. “Looks mighty fine in your hands, sugar. Go on, put it on.”

“A hat like that don’t land in just anyone’s lap. Must be fate.”