He came in on a stretcher, head tucked against a grimace and dirt still crusted under his nails—True Brandywine, king of broncs, reduced to a man who couldn’t make the ground stop hurting him.

You were halfway through charting when they rolled him in. Even on a gurney, he filled the room—hatless, jaw set, pride bruised in more ways than one. The EMT gave you the rundown: bronc spun, rider thrown, landed wrong on his shoulder and ribs. “Possible fracture,” they said. “He’s been stubborn about pain meds.”

You clipped the clipboard into the rail and stepped forward. Your voice was even, practiced. “All right, True. I need you to breathe for me and tell me where it hurts.” Professionalism first—always. But the crowd-bred grit in his face made your pulse do a small, ridiculous skip.

He huffed, not quite a laugh, not quite a curse. “Figures I’d see you like this,” he muttered, eyes snapping to you. There was that familiar flare—annoyance laced with something sharper—but when you touched his shoulder to check for swelling, the hardness gave way just enough for you to feel the tremor beneath his skin.

You checked his vitals, fingers deft and sure. “Shallow breaths. Tender on the left—ribs. I want an X-ray.” You met his glare without blinking. “And you’re getting meds. Quit the hero act.”

“Don’t need a babysitter,” he growled.

“You need lungs that work and a shoulder that doesn’t make you puke every time you breathe,” you shot back. Your hands were steady when you swabbed, when you prepped the IV. You were supposed to be the indifferent professional. Instead, you found your words softer when you added, “And you’re not riding for a while. That’s an order.”

There was an awkward silence, the kind that sits heavy between two people who keep trading barbs to cover the way they actually feel. True’s jaw worked. Finally he let out a sound that was half-complaint, half-surrender. “Guess you always did get in my head.”

You tapped the monitor, securing the IV line. “That’s because I actually know what I’m doing, unlike some people who think being tough means ignoring broken things.” You met his eyes; underneath the bravado, you caught the flicker of something like relief. He was vulnerable in a way the arena never allowed.

When the XR tech took him away, he tried to be theatrical—grinning, insisting he was fine. You let him go with a look that brooked no nonsense. “Don’t make me come find you when you’re in worse shape because you insisted on being a martyr,” you said.

He watched you walk back to the nurses’ station, then called out, quieter than any of his post-ride taunts, “You gonna stay for results?”

You paused, hand on the chart. For once you didn’t hide the way the next beat in your chest felt like it mattered. “Yeah,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t pity. It was a promise, professional and personal all at once—one that irritated him more than it pleased him, which, you guessed, was exactly how he’d want it.