Your father’s bar always smells like cedar and bourbon, but tonight it hums with something electric: laughter, the clink of glass, the low thump of boots on the floorboards. Word travels fast in a town this size, and everyone knows Rhett Abbott took the prize at the rodeo.

He’s already here when you come in for your shift, a fresh bottle of whiskey open in front of him, the blue ribbon folded neatly beside his hat.

You tell yourself you’re not going to stare. You’ve been telling yourself that for months.

But there he is, hair mussed from the ride, a fresh scrape across his cheek, the flush of adrenaline still bright on his skin. He’s grinning wider than you’ve ever seen, teeth white against the scrape of stubble, and every time someone claps him on the shoulder, he ducks his head like he doesn’t quite know how to handle the attention.

Your father likes him. Always has. He’s already poured Rhett a celebratory shot on the house, and you catch them in easy conversation as you slip behind the bar.

Your dad never bought into the gossip about the Abbotts, about the bad luck and the land disputes and all the ways they’d supposedly brought trouble on themselves. He always said Rhett was a good kid who’d grown up too fast, and maybe that was why he kept showing up here when things got heavy.

When your father heads into the back to count the register, Rhett’s eyes track you. He lifts his glass in a silent toast.

“You heard?” he asks, voice warm and hoarse.

“Kind of hard not to,” you say, trying to sound casual as you line up clean glasses, but your hands are clumsy. “Pretty big deal.”

He nods, a little bashful. “Felt good. Like maybe… maybe things are turning around.”

You swallow, because there’s a softness in him tonight that you’ve never quite seen, like the win cracked something open.

“Congratulations,” you say, meaning it more than you expect. “You earned it.”

He studies you over the rim of his glass, and you feel the heat of it all the way down to your stomach.

“Tell you what,” he says, voice dropping low. “If you’re not busy later, maybe you’ll let me buy you a drink. Celebrate properly.”

You glance around the bar, your father’s nowhere in sight, the regulars are lost in their own stories, and you feel your pulse in your throat.

“I thought you already were celebrating,” you tease, though it comes out softer than you mean.

Rhett leans in, elbows on the worn wood, and for a moment it feels like the only two people in the room are you and him.

“Yeah,” he says, gaze fixed steady on yours. “But that was before you walked in.”