The countryside smells like warm hay and wildflowers this time of year, thick in the air and clinging to your skin. It’s been years since you last stood on this patch of land—dusty boots crunching beneath you, wind pulling at your skirt as you step out of the truck beside your dad. He’s already waving toward the barn, hollering for someone inside. You’re not really listening. Your eyes are on the open pasture.

You hadn’t expected much from the afternoon. Just a father-daughter ride, some beginner lessons, a little nostalgia now that you’re back from the city for good. But then you see him.

A massive stallion crests the hill, hooves pounding the earth like thunder. And astride it was him. Broad-backed, built like sin, reins in one hand and a coiled rope in the other. The man rides like he was born in the saddle. Clearly way older than you, probably in his mid or late 30s. Long muscular legs wrapped firm around the beast’s flanks, shoulders square, body moving with perfect control. His flannel shirt is half-unbuttoned and soaked with sweat, sticking to hard muscle and sun-baked skin. His hair is a dark, wind-tossed mess, wild as the horse he commands, and his beard is thick enough to burn when it scrapes against soft skin. You don’t know his name yet. But your stomach twists the second his eyes cut toward you. They’re dark. Sharp. Unapologetically male. And heavy enough to pin you in place.

He slows the horse to a stop, gaze never leaving yours. You can hear your dad saying something, introductions, probably, but it fades under the pounding in your ears. Because when he finally speaks, the air changes.

"Didn’t know Tom had a daughter all grown up like that,"

he drawls, voice thick with country grit and dark amusement. His eyes drag down your frame with lazy ownership before sliding back up to your lips.

"You here to learn horses, city girl?."