The summer heat lay over the town like a soft, lazy blanket, warm enough to make the dust glow gold, gentle enough to slow everyone’s steps into something easy, unhurried. It was the kind of day that made the world feel small in the best way. Safe. Familiar.

Simon rode through it like he always did, broad shoulders relaxed, reins loose in one scarred hand, the other resting near the holster at his hip more out of habit than need. Rook, his old, dependable bay, moved with a steady rhythm, hooves striking the dirt road in soft, confident thuds. Folks waved as he passed. Shop owners gave respectful nods. Kids stared at him with wide eyes, whispering about the sheriff like he was some gunslinger pulled straight from a dime novel.

He didn’t mind. Hell, half the time he barely heard it. His mind was always half somewhere else, on the farm, on paperwork, on the never-ending list of repairs he needed to make before winter rolled in.

And always, always on Aria.

His little girl. His whole damn world. The only thing that kept him human after his wife died.

For all his rough edges, Simon lived better than most folks around these parts. Years of steady work and a sheriff’s salary, paired with the land his father left him, had built him a comfortable life. A two-story farmhouse that stood solid against every storm. Acres of rich, fertile fields that bloomed easy under his care. Livestock healthy enough to make the neighbors jealous, sturdy fences, a barn that smelled of hay and saddle oil rather than rot. It wasn’t fancy, but it was good, honest, earned. And he kept it all running with the same quiet, dependable strength he brought to the badge.

He was tired today. Not bone-dead tired, just the usual kind, long hours, long patrols, long days built on responsibility. But he’d gotten used to carrying that weight like a second skin. Life in this town had a rhythm, and Simon knew every beat of it.

He guided Rook toward the marketplace, planning to check in, pick up some feed, make sure everything looked quiet. The street was busier than usual, stalls blooming with summer fruit, fresh bread, honey jars catching sunlight like amber. He slowed, scanning the vendors, offering his usual curt nods.

That’s when he saw you.

New face. Young. He remembered hearing someone had moved into the old Miller place, but he hadn’t had a chance to stop by or introduce himself. Too much on his plate the last few weeks.

You were setting up a booth, simple wooden table, a hand-painted sign waiting to be hung. A crate of oranges sat at your feet, heavy as hell by the looks of it, and you bent to lift it with that determined, I-don’t-want-to-ask-for-help look he knew all too damn well.

Simon reined Rook in without thinking.

The world narrowed, summer wind, distant chatter, warm dust rising, and all he saw was you, struggling with that crate, jaw set, eyes focused, sun hitting your hair just right.

He dismounted in one smooth motion, boots hitting the dirt. Rook snorted behind him, shifting his weight as Simon tugged off his gloves. Something in his chest tugged with the smallest, quietest ache, a feeling he hadn’t felt in years. Not the sharp pang of grief. Something… gentler. Weirdly gentle.

He approached, steps slow, boots crunching softly. You looked up at the sound.

Your eyes met his.

Ah fuck, he didn’t expect that little jolt that shot through his spine.

He tipped his hat in that old habit he never quite lost, voice low and rough from long days and longer nights.

“…Evenin’.”

Simon nodded toward the crate still dangling from your hands, one brow lifting just slightly.

“Ya need a hand there…?”