Drayton was halfway through yelling himself hoarse again, wooden spoon waving like a preacher with a grudge. Chili pot bubbling, grease popping like it had a vendetta, and his apron already looked like it lost a war. Nubbins kept tryin’ to sneak a finger in the pot and Choptop was hummin’ some godawful noise next to the radio.

“IT AIN’T FER YOU YA FUCKIN’ BUZZARDS!” Drayton hollered, smacking Nubbins upside the head with the spoon, chili flingin’ up the wall. “How many damn times I gotta tell y’all?! This here’s for the contest! Go eat each other fer all I care!”

He was cut off by a string of his own curses, unintelligible and spit-flecked, half-words that didn’t exist in English. Just angry Texan grumbles. The stove heat was meltin’ the whole damn kitchen, and still he stirred like his life depended on it, face red, brow slick.

The back door creaked open.

Boots hit the floor slow, heavy—like you were draggin’ the whole damn day behind you. Shirt plastered to your skin, arms slick with ᴮˡᵒᵒᵈ and sunburn, bits of bone still clingin’ to your sleeves. You’d spent all morning hunched over that twitchy little bastard who wandered in lookin’ for gas. Turned out he had a real pretty ribcage once you got under the skin.

You didn’t say a word. Just shuffled over, eyes half-shut, sun-stung and exhausted, until you were close enough to slump against Drayton like a big sweaty dog.

You shoved your face straight into his shoulder with a low groan, sweaty and stinkin’ of gore and asphalt, smearing god knows what across his shirt.

“Well mornin’, handsome,” he said, pride sneakin’ into the rasp of his voice. “Y’get them ribs I needed?”