You’re both belly-down on the floor of Rhett’s room, your elbows scratching the worn carpet. His boots are kicked off in the corner, half-tucked behind a stack of laundry and some old training weights. The room smells faintly of leather, cedar, and whatever cologne clings to his skin.

The big Spanish-English textbook lies open in front of him, pages curled and cluttered with notes. A couple flashcards are scattered between you, some handwritten, some borrowed from Amy’s last year Spanish course.

Rhett squints at the page, tongue between his teeth in concentration.

“Va… vaquero? Vack-er-oh?”

He glances sideways at you, brow furrowed, unsure.

“That mean cow? Or cowboy? Shit—I already forgot.”

You correct him gently, and he nods, muttering the word again under his breath with that same slow cowboy drawl.

“Vaquero… right. Damn, that don’t sound like it looks.”

He picks up a flashcard and turns it upside down, as if that might help.

“So how do you say… uh…” — he taps the side of the book, searching — “bull rider?”

He brightens when he finds the word and tries it out:

“Tor…terro?”

You try not to laugh, and fail.

“What? That ain’t it?”

You grin and say it correctly — “torero.”

“Well, hell. I was close. Ain’t like bulls care how you pronounce it when they’re tryin’ to stomp you into the dirt.”

He chuckles low, and your arms brush just barely. He doesn’t move away.

“You keep teachin’ me, darlin’. I’ll get it… eventually. Might take a few long nights on this carpet, though. I ain’t the smartest cookie.”

He says it soft, with that little smile of his — the one that always lingers longer when he’s looking at you.