The rule was simple. Clear as a summer sky over Sweetwater County.

“You wear the hat, you ride the cowboy.”

And somehow, you ended up wearing Bucky Barnes’ hat.

It wasn’t even on purpose. You were tipsy, laughing too hard at Sam’s horrible attempt at line dancing, when Bucky had come up behind you, all slow swagger and silver buckle glinting under the bar lights.

“Hold this for me, sweetheart?” he asked, voice a smooth Southern drawl that tickled down your spine. You barely registered the weight of his dark hat as he dropped it on your head.

You were still wearing it when the bar went quiet. The music screeched to a halt. Heads turned.

Sam choked on his drink. “Well, damn.”

Sharon nearly spit out her beer. “That’s his hat.”

Bucky just leaned against the bar with that smug tilt to his lips, one eyebrow raised like he’d planned the whole damn thing. Maybe he had.

You blinked. “What?”

Steve coughed into his hand. “It’s a rule out here.”

Bucky pushed off the bar, boots echoing heavy over the wooden floor, closing the distance between you like a slow, inevitable storm. “You wear the hat…” he murmured, gaze dragging over you, thick with heat, “you ride the cowboy.”