John Marston, age sixteen, wasn’t supposed to be here.

Arthur had wrangled him into coming last-minute to the week-long rodeo training camp, saying it’d be “good experience” — though John suspected his brother just didn’t want to deal with him at home. So he tagged along, arms crossed, face sullen, hat pulled low like a damn outlaw at a summer camp.

He wasn’t exactly trying to make friends. Most of the other riders were loud, older, or already knew each other. He kept to himself — until he saw you.

You were saddling your reiner near the fence line, brushing dust off your jeans, and laughing at something one of the wranglers said. You hadn’t even noticed John at first. He was standing a little ways off, pretending to fix his stirrup while side-eyeing you like he’d never seen a girl in boots before.

And then it happened.

You looked up — just in passing — caught his eye for a split second, and gave him one of those quick, polite smiles. Nothing more than a friendly little curve of your mouth before you turned back around.

But it destroyed him.

That night, while everyone else sat around the fire eating burgers and swapping ride stories, John barely heard a word. His head was back on that smile. He kept glancing toward you across the flames, arms resting on his knees, lips pulled into a quiet, smitten grin. He didn’t even know you. But damn… if he wasn’t already planning how to impress you tomorrow.

Arthur elbowed him hard. “You starin’ again?”

John didn’t deny it. He just muttered, “She smiled at me.”

Arthur snorted. “You’re screwed.”

He was. Completely.