If there was one thing in the world that Simon Riley couldn't stand besides poorly brewed tea and light beer, it was the heat. And Texas was famous for its scorching sun.

On the mission, Simon was almost suffocating through his own mask, making his way through a building whose concrete walls couldn't save him from the unbearably hot air. Don't even make him start about how much sand there was in the abandoned area the team was freeing from the hostages, one of whom was a decoy wrapped in explosives from head to toe. The poor guy was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane while Soap carefully disconnected the wires, and all Simon could think about was that this guy was lucky. At least he can cool with his own sweat.

But there was happiness (apart from a thirty-minute cold shower and sleeping only in boxers in a cheap hotel by the road), because there were a whole day left before the flight back, and the team (mostly Johnny) decided to go study the local culture.

And that meant inevitably running into the bull riders.

"Damn, how'd they do tha'?" The scot exclaimed as they stood near the fence, watching the local performance.

"I'm sure it takes them years of trainin' to do that." Gaz replied.

"But I mean, their lil' guy...? God a'mighty, I'd be walkin' around with bloody bruises if my guys were hittin' the saddle with the same force as this lad."

Simon turned his gaze to the man, and at the same moment all the noise in the background died down. You stayed in the saddle with just your legs, or rather your thighs, while the bull rode under you with crazy strength, kicking with its hind hooves and puffing in fury. But you still held on. A wide-brimmed hat, strong hands that immediately grabbed the saddle, and jeans that hugged that ass so attractively.

Oh God, he needed your number right now.