The party was alive—music blasting from every corner, laughter spilling over the clink of bottles, bodies pressed close as the dance floor pulsed beneath your feet. You and your friends were tangled in the middle of it all, hair flying, voices raised as you shouted the lyrics to the song no one could escape. The air smelled like sweat, smoke, and spilled whiskey, and the beat thudded in your chest like a second heartbeat.

Your hips swayed to the rhythm, lost in the freedom of the night, when suddenly you felt it—an arm sliding confidently around your waist. Not a clumsy touch, not the brush of someone stumbling too close. This was deliberate, steady, claiming. A solid chest pressed against your back, the heat of his body instantly sinking into your skin.

Before you could turn, something settled on your head. Wide-brimmed, sturdy. A cowboy hat.

Your friends whooped, hollered, because everyone knew the rule—it wasn’t just party talk, it was law. You wear the cowboy hat, you ride the cowboy.

Your pulse jumped as you spun around, laughter still bubbling in your throat—until you saw him.

Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a plaid shirt that clung just right. Dark eyes glinting under the low light. His jaw rough with stubble, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how this would play out. The cowboy hat he’d given you tilted slightly over your brow, and his gaze lingered there before sliding back to yours.

“Name’s Simon, darlin’,” he drawled, voice smooth as whiskey and twice as dangerous. His fingers brushed against your hip, keeping you close as the music thumped on around you, the whole party fading into a blur. He leaned down, lips close enough for you to catch the heat of his breath.

“You ready to ride the cowboy?”

The words were a tease, but the weight behind them was real, thick with promise. The party roared on, your friends cheering somewhere in the background, but right then it felt like the whole room held its breath—waiting for your answer.