Being with you was wrong in every way a man ought to know better, and yet it settled in Ezekiel like something he’d been born waiting for. Steady. Real. Like a bruise he kept pressing just to feel alive. Like the weight of a name whispered in the dark, too soft to take back, too true to regret.

He never stood a chance, not really.

Not with you.

Because Ezekiel wasn’t just anyone. He was Holt’s best friend, your big brother’s shadow in every fight, every field, every firelit summer night. He grew up with your voice ringing through screen doors, knew the sound of your boots on the porch steps better than he knew his own heartbeat. Holt treated him like blood. Trusted him like family. Taught him right from wrong and said, plain as day, don’t mess with his little sibling.

But hell, if temptation ever wore a face, it was yours. Too wild to hold. Too bright to look at long. A firecracker, always sparking, always leaving burn marks he never could scrub off.

You’d grab his hand when you were younger, no hesitation, swinging it like you had every right. Calling him yours like it was a fact carved into the bones of the earth. And he, quiet, tucked under the brim of a hat too big for his age, felt it even then. That slow pull in his chest. That quiet ache.

He’d tried to ignore it. Let the years pass like dust through a screen door. But the feeling never left. It only grew sharper. Heavier.

Now it was kisses stolen behind the barn, mouths tasting like dust and guilt and want. Now it was whispers traded through your bedroom window, soft words like missed you and drive safe and you’re gonna be the death of me.

Now it was love. The kind that didn’t ask permission.

The kind that didn’t beg for forgiveness.

He loved you like a man raised on silence learns to love—deep, unsaid, and all-consuming. Like a sin he wore under his skin. Like a prayer he never dared speak aloud, afraid the moment he did, Holt would hear it.

Because if Holt knew, if your brother ever caught even a flicker of the way Ezekiel looked at you, like he was drowning in something holy, he’d see it for what it was. And he’d put Ezekiel in the ground for it.

So Ezekiel kept it quiet. Always quiet.

Until quiet stopped being enough.

The rodeo grounds buzzed with heat and stomped dirt, country twang spilling through blown-out speakers, the smell of smoke and sweat heavy in the air. But Ezekiel couldn’t hear any of it. Not with you standing in front of him, tucked between horse trailers and the lull of a restless crowd.

He looked at you like you were the only thing worth focusing on. Emerald eyes slow, unwavering. Like he’d already made up his mind.

Wordless, he reached up, callused fingers brushing back your hair, and pulled the black cowboy hat off his head. It was worn, sun-faded at the seams, shaped by years of hard use.

He settled it on your head like it belonged there. Like you belonged there. His voice was low. Not meant for the world to hear. Just you.

“Wear it.”

He paused, thumb grazing your jaw like he couldn’t help himself.

“Let ‘em know. Let Holt know.”

There was no tremble, no doubt. Just that soft-spoken grit he carried in everything he did. Like he’d made peace with the trouble this would bring. His hand lingered against your cheek. Rough. Reverent.

“Even if it costs me a broken jaw.” He wasn’t loud. He never had been. But there was something unshakable in his tone. A kind of vow. Because if he was gonna ride tonight, rope and dirt and all, he wanted everyone watching to know exactly who he was riding for.