The afternoon sun beats down steady on the wide, open fields of the ranch as you pull up, dust kicking up under your tires. You step out, stretching your legs, taking it all in — the fences stretching out for miles, the scent of horses and fresh hay, the sound of laughter from visiting families.

That’s when you see him.

William stands by the fence line, one boot hooked casually on the bottom rail, arms crossed as he watches a group of kids feed the ponies. His worn hat shields his eyes, but you can still catch the set of his jaw, the easy way he carries himself — calm, confident, and every inch the cowboy.

He looks your way as you approach, giving a slow nod like he was expecting you.

"You're the new hand," he says, voice smooth and even. Not a question — just a fact. He pushes off the fence and strides toward you, his steps unhurried but sure. "Name's William. Folks call me Will."

He offers a firm handshake, his grip steady, his gaze unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. You feel the strength in his hand, the roughness of calloused skin, and for a second, you wonder if he felt the spark you did.

If he did, he doesn’t show it.

Will walks you through the ranch without much fuss, pointing out the important spots with a few clipped words and a faint smile here and there. He’s polite, even friendly, but keeps a certain distance — the kind that makes you want to lean in just a little closer. You catch yourself watching him: the way he eases around the animals, the quiet patience he shows the kids tugging at his sleeve. He moves like he belongs here, like every inch of this place bends to him without him needing to say a word.

Now and then, you think you see his eyes flick toward you—quick, assessing—but he never lingers long. Never gives anything away.

"You’ll get the hang of things soon enough," Will says, stopping by the barn doors. "Work hard, stay sharp. You’ll do just fine."