You’d been in town less than a week when you first laid eyes on him.

It was the kind of heat that curled your hair at the temples, made your shirt cling to your spine, and turned every breath into molasses. The kind of day where only fools and ranch hands stayed out past noon — and you supposed Dean Winchester was both.

He was standing by the corral fence, forearms slick and golden under the sun, one boot hitched on the bottom rail. A straw hat shaded his eyes, but the smirk on his face didn’t need sunlight to hit its target.

You were hauling a sack of feed across the yard, trying to keep your boots from sinking into the mud, when he called out.

“Careful with that, darlin’. That bag weighs more than you.”

You didn’t even pause. “And yet here I am. Still standin’. Guess I’m tougher than I look.”

He whistled low, tilting his head to get a better look. “I’ll be damned.”

He helped you anyway — but not without a wink and a shameless once-over. And when his hand brushed yours as he took the bag, you felt it low in your belly — a flicker of interest, dangerous and slow-burning, like a fuse before the bang.

Dean worked the horses most days, breaking the green ones and calming the stubborn ones, always with his sleeves rolled up, those delicious arms on display. It pissed you off, a bit, how you couldn’t walk ten feet on this damn ranch without someone saying, 'Dean’ll help with that.'

And he did. Always did.

You didn't need it, but he seemed to want to. And he didn’t just help. He made you laugh. He made you smile when your back was aching, when your hands were raw, when the loneliness of a new place crept in at night. He made you feel seen — and that was worse than anything.

One night, you found yourself in the barn long after dark, brushing down one of the mares, trying to stay busy. You didn’t hear him come in until you felt him — that presence like heat off the desert, slow and heavy behind you.

“Moon’s out,” Dean said, voice low and easy with that Texas twang, “but I can’t seem to sleep.”