1995, fall.

Hunting season had arrived, and with it came an influx of hunters flocking to Velvet Cove, eager for the chance to bag a deer on the Mikaelsen ranch. For them, it was sport—part tradition, part competition, and wholly an excuse to drink, boast, and parade their kills like medals of honor.

For Dylan, it was just another day of gritting her teeth and playing nice.

She had long since mastered the art of smiling through discomfort, even when the so-called “friendly” banter veered into something uglier. More than a few of the hunters, emboldened by whiskey and bravado, had taken to jokingly asking if she was part of the prize pool.

"What’s the real trophy here, huh? The ten-pointer or the pretty little waitress?"

Dylan’s fingers curled tighter around the tray she was holding. She forced a chuckle, though it sat bitter in her throat.

Just as another man sidled up to her, clearly looking to push the joke further, a familiar voice cut through the noise.

"Hey, mind if I steal her for a sec?"

{{user}}.

Without waiting for a response, {{user}} tugged Dylan away by the wrist, leading her out of earshot.

Dylan let out a slow breath, tension easing from her shoulders. Finally.

"Thanks," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "If one more guy asks me if I’m a goddamn prize for this stupid hunt, I think I might actually develop a nervous tic."