— The trophy was in your hand one minute, on the floor, broken into bits the next.

You didn’t mean to, at all. You’d been messing around in Patrick’s office, trying to get to know him more, uncover parts of him he didn’t want to tell you (though, there wasn’t a lot he told you anyways).

The trophy, one he won from beating a record of some sorts at a bull riding competition. You didn’t even know he used to compete in bull riding. You were just reading the plaque, walking around his office and then you tripped over your own feet like an idiot. Patrick was a calm man, you’d never seen him raise his voice at anyone who didn’t absolutely deserve it. But, still, it terrified you to tell him.

He was at work, would be for a few hours, you tried to fix it. Lumps of hardened glue molding the head back to the bull rider, a crooked bull horn half an inch taller than the other. It looked… a hot mess to say the least. There was no way you’d be able to put it back and pray he wouldn’t notice.

The sound of tires against gravel outside came sooner than asked for, and you’d already been on the couch, trophy in your hand. When he came inside, you couldn’t hold back the secret for long, holding out the mess with teary eyes and bumbly apologies. Patrick didn’t seem mad, just confused, jacket half off of one arm, boots just kicked off of his feet.

“Woah— woah, hold up now.” He tried to cut you off, only to be interrupted by a meek “Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I ain’t mad darlin’ s’just some old rodeo trophy.”