Of all the things Simon "Ghost" Riley expected from Price's mandatory "vacation," this wasn't it. Leaning against a corral fence on a sunbaked Texas ranch, he watched the horses, a flicker of a boyhood fascination with Westerns stirring in his chest.

He didn't hear you approach, only felt the gentle brush of your arm as you joined him at the rail.

"Ever ridden?" you asked, your voice warm like the breeze.

"No," he rumbled, the admission feeling strangely intimate. "City boy."

Your smile was a knowing, bright thing. Before he could process it, you were reaching up, settling a straw cowboy hat gently on his head. The wide brim cast a shadow over his skull balaclava.

"Now you look the part," you teased, your eyes sparkling. "Let's see if you can play it."

After a patient lesson, his first attempt to mount the gentle mare was a clumsy, aborted disaster. His second ended with him draped over the saddle, legs kicking comically in the air. He could feel the heat of a flush under his mask. You had your hand over your mouth, your shoulders shaking with silent, affectionate laughter.

He huffed, adjusted the ridiculous hat, and tried a third time. This time, he swung up into the saddle with a sudden, surprising grace. He straightened his back, looking every bit the intimidating soldier perched on a horse.

He turned his head toward you, the shadow of the hat brim obscuring his eyes, but the tone of his voice was clear—a low, deadpan rumble laced with a hint of a smile he'd never show.

"Don't see what the fuss was about. It's just... elevated standing."

The mare took a single, placid step sideways, and his grip on the reins tightened instinctively. He refused to acknowledge the stumble, holding his pose of supreme, awkward dignity.