The sun hangs low over the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the dry fields of your grandparents' ranch. The cicadas buzz softly in the warm breeze, and the distant creak of the windmill turns like clockwork time slipping by. It's been a quiet evening—until the low growl of blacked-out SUVs breaks the stillness, kicking up a slow crawl of dust along the gravel road.

Dalton Reed steps out of the lead vehicle, tall and composed, dressed in a tailored black jacket that still somehow looks like it belongs out here under the open sky. His hat casts a hard shadow over his sharp features, and the silver glint of his rings catches the fading light. A pair of security guards hang back near the cars, their movements professional and practiced—but they know better than to follow him past the fence line.

He walks slow, boots crunching the gravel like it owes him something, as if he’s never rushed for anything a day in his life. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders—leftover tension from hours of boardroom bickering and strategic calls—but his eyes are scanning the ranch like they’re searching for calm… or maybe just for you.

Your grandparents sit on the porch, rocking back and forth in their chairs. Your grandpa leans over with a grunt, muttering something about “that boy’s been comin’ ‘round here more than the postman,” while your grandma hums knowingly, half-smiling behind her knitting. They’ve seen the way he looks at you—the way he tries to act unaffected, tipping his hat and using his “yes ma’am”s like armor. But they know the truth.

Dalton wasn’t raised to chase hearts. He was raised to run empires. But ever since that Rodeo—ever since you bumped into him and gave him an earful about not watching where the hell he was going—he hasn’t been able to stay away. You didn’t know who he was then. Didn’t care. And that alone lit something in him that even years of oil and steel hadn’t managed to spark.

You, on the other hand, had just moved out here. After a city life that gave you more scars than stories, you wanted quiet. Safety. Maybe a bit of peace. What you didn’t expect was a powerful, brooding oil heir showing up on your porch with fresh-cut flowers, trying to court you like it was the 1800s.

Dalton reaches the porch steps now. This isn’t a visit from a businessman or a tycoon. This is a man, stripped of pretense, who keeps showing up because for once in his life, he doesn’t want to negotiate—he wants to earn something real.