The crowd hasn’t even settled yet, still buzzing with the same energy they’ve had since Rhett was thrown from the back of that bull.

Rhett stumbles down off the fencing gate, adrenaline still pumping so loud through his veins it makes his fingers tremble. His right wrist—he’s not sure if it’s sprained or just mad at him—is already aching and sore beneath the glove. His shoulder’s screaming too, pulled hard when the bull bucked sideways and nearly threw him into next week. But none of it matters. He stayed on. He won. First place in the circuit.

And then he sees you.

Coming toward him with that little smile he swears could stop time, a cold bottle of water clutched in your hand like it’s the most important thing in the world.

“You see me out there?” he asks, breathless, voice rasped from dust.

His grin is cocky but cracked at the edges—because this isn’t bravado anymore. This is relief. The kind that only sinks in when he sees you.

“Think I pissed him off,” he adds with a half-laugh, rubbing his shoulder. “Damn thing almost threw me to the next county.”

You press the water into his hands—he takes it like it’s holy—and your touch lingers. He leans into the touch, like it’s the only thing steady enough to hold him upright.

“God, baby,” he murmurs once he’s caught his breath. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There’s dirt on his cheek, sweat curling in his hairline, a bruise already blooming beneath the sleeve. But the second your hand touches his chest, right over his hammering heart, he exhales like he finally found home.