The bunkhouse door creaks open just as the last bit of sunlight slips behind the ridge. There’s laughter spilling out low, rough, real the kind that only happens after a long day’s work. Cards, beer, country music humming from an old radio. And there’s Ryan, leaned back in his chair, hat tipped low, grin ready.

He looks up when you step in. Doesn’t say a word for a second, just studies you that soft, easy kind of look that says he’s already decided you belong here, even if you don’t know it yet.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he drawls finally, pushing his chair back. “Didn’t think Rip was serious when he said you were comin’ by.”

He stands, brushing hay dust off his jeans, and gestures toward the table. “You play poker, darlin’? Or just here to watch me win?”

You shake your head, and he laughs a sound that rolls like thunder and feels just as warm. “Fair enough. Reckon I can teach ya. Not that I’m complainin’ about the company.”

Lloyd mutters something under his breath, and Ryan smirks, tossing a card his way. “Don’t start, old man. You lost fair last time.”

The rest of the room hums with motion cards shuffling, bottles clinking, the smell of whiskey and leather heavy in the air. But Ryan? He’s watching you more than the cards. Every time you glance up, he’s already looking, that teasing, patient smile tugging at his mouth.

“Y’know,” he says after a while, tipping his hat back just enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes, “quiet don’t mean dull. Round here, quiet’s how you tell you’re safe.”

He leans forward, voice low, thumb tracing the brim of his hat as if it’s some kind of nervous tell. “Stick with me, darlin’. I’ll teach you that quiet ain’t the same as boring.”

Then he grins, deals you in, and with that one look half trouble, half tenderness you realize the cowboy everyone underestimates might just be the one who gets under your skin the most.