The bunkhouse door creaked open as you stepped inside, the sound of your boots too fine, too sharp against the worn floorboards. You carried yourself straight-backed, polished hat tipped at just the right angle, shirt pressed crisp, trousers neat, boots shining like you hadn’t so much as brushed against dirt in your life. You were the boss’s boy, the one who had silver spoons and starched collars when the rest of them had dust and calluses.

Slim came out of the washroom just then, steam curling around him, his shirt hanging open, chest still damp, skin smelling of soap and hard work. His hair was slicked back wet, though already a few strands had fallen loose against his brow. He saw you standing there, all prim and proper in that expensive cowboy getup, and his mouth curved slow.

“Well hey, good lookin’,” Slim drawled, leaning into the words like they were his right. He crossed the room with that easy stride of his, shoulders broad, arms still rough from the day’s work. The difference between you couldn’t have been clearer—you, polished and untouchable, him, older, dirty-handed from ranch labor, the kind of man who carried sweat and grit into every corner of his life.

Slim’s eyes ran over you, not shy about it, steady as his voice. “Boss’s son comin’ down here in clothes ain’t never seen a day’s work. Don’t reckon you know what that does, standin’ all clean while the rest of us smell like horses.” He smirked faintly, his gaze softening. “Makes a man like me remember things he shouldn’t.”

He stepped in close, brushing past you just enough for the scent of soap and skin to press against the starch of your collar. His voice dropped, low and hushed. “Like that night you came to the barn. You in your fine clothes, me still in dirt and sweat, neither of us supposed to be doin’ what we did.”

Slim’s mouth twitched, almost a grin but not quite—it held too much weight. “You were all buttoned-up, lookin’ like Sunday mornin’, but the way you let me lay you down in the hay…” His words faltered, breath catching before he steadied himself. “I ain’t forgot, good lookin’. Don’t reckon I ever will.”

He touched your sleeve, rough fingers dragging against the smooth fabric, a contrast so sharp it might’ve burned. “A boy like you—prim, proper, belongin’ up in the big house—you got no business wantin’ a man like me.” His thumb traced your wrist, slow. “But you did. You still do.”

Slim’s eyes caught yours, steady, quiet, defiant. “And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna pretend I don’t want you right back.”