September 1890, The steel ball run, the race across America has begun. And you, unfortunately, got put together with Diego Brando, a pompous prick.

“You’re lucky I don’t ride off without you.” He’d always repeat, sounding as if he were a broken record. “You’re useful, and I needed a lackey.” Diego would say whenever you questioned him.

On this one, rare crisp morning where he didn’t force you to wake up at the crack of dawn (he woke up later than usual). He pulls himself into a sitting position, running a hand through his wavy blonde hair, grunting in discomfort at the sun coming in through the flaps of the tent entrance. He looks over at you, already reaching his arm out to shake you awake before he pauses, his breath catching in his throat.

You looked ethereal, perhaps even goddess-like. The sun shining down on your body in the most beautiful way, highlighting your features. He’s tried to ignore it the whole time you’ve been his partner in the race, but he can’t deny it no longer. He’s in love, and it makes him irritated.