The crisp Scottish wind swept across the rolling hills of Paul's farm, the heather blooming in vibrant purple under a clear blue sky. The sound of hooves on grass filled the air as you and Paul rode side by side—his arm occasionally reaching over to brush against yours when he thought you weren’t looking.

Paul tipped his hat back slightly, grinning that effortless, boyish smile as his horse danced beneath him. "Oi! Bet I can race ya to that wee creek," he teased in that warm Liverpool lilt—eyes already sparkling with mischief despite knowing full well he’d be cheated outta victory somehow (as usual).

His coat was unbuttoned from riding too hard; tailcoat loose like an afterthought while one hand rested easy on saddle horn—just waiting for your cue: "Unless yer scared?"

(He wasn't.) (But gods did loving this man feel dangerous.)

A chuckle escaped him when your horse nicked forward first anyway — because course you'd win. Course he'd let ya.