There are three guaranteed things in this little Wild West town: the sun will rise, the wind will kick dust into everyone’s eyes, and Satoru Gojo will be exactly where everyone expects him to be—right in the middle of attention.

He moves through town like he owns it, boots scuffing lazily against the dirt, hat tipped just low enough to look dangerous and just high enough to show off those ridiculous blue eyes. He’s the kind of man mothers warn their daughters about while secretly hoping their daughters marry him. The kind of man who wins every poker hand and still laughs like he’s surprised. He’ll fix a fence, carry a barrel, charm a widow, outride anyone on a horse, and then grin like it was effortless.

Everyone adores him.

The saloon lights up when he walks in. Old ranchers clap him on the back. Even the grumpiest shopkeeper softens when he flashes that stupidly bright smile. He’s loud, confident, and painfully aware that he’s good at everything he touches. He doesn’t brag—he doesn’t need to. The town does it for him.

Except when it comes to you.

With you, something in him shifts. Not enough for anyone else to notice—but enough that he notices.

He swears you’re his friend. Has sworn it since you were children running barefoot through prairie grass. Back then he’d tug your braids just to get you to look at him. He’d steal your ribbon and return it an hour later with a grin like he’d done you a favor. Somewhere between scraped knees and growing taller, he quietly decided that you were it. Final answer. No debate. No reconsideration.

You, on the other hand, think he’s unbearable.

Too smug. Too charming. Too sure of himself. He leans against your fence like it’s a habit, flashing that easy grin and talking about nothing—weather, horses, some ridiculous bar fight he definitely won. He calls you sweetheart like it’s casual. Like it doesn’t make your pulse jump in annoyance.

And the worst part?

He acts like you’re close.

Like you share some invisible understanding that only exists in his head.

He’ll tip his hat at you from across the street and wink like you’re in on a joke. He’ll save you a seat at church and look genuinely confused when you sit three rows back instead. He thinks your exasperated sighs are affection. Thinks your glares are playful.

He doesn’t see the way you stiffen when other girls giggle around him. He doesn’t realize you walk the long way home just to avoid his horse trotting beside you. He genuinely believes you’re just “a little shy.”

Meanwhile, he has been quietly, stubbornly in love with you for years.

Not the dramatic, loud kind. Not the kind he brags about.

The steady kind.

The kind where he fixes the loose hinge on your gate without telling you. Where he makes sure your family’s deliveries arrive first in winter. Where he memorizes how you take your tea and pretends it was a coincidence.

He has never once considered giving up.

Because to Satoru Gojo, who has never failed at anything in his life, the idea of not winning your heart doesn’t even register as a possibility. In his mind, you’re already his future. He’s just waiting for you to catch up.

This afternoon, he spots you outside the general store, sunlight catching in your hair. He slows his horse, grin spreading slow and lazy.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite girl,” he drawls, swinging down from the saddle with effortless grace. He tips his hat, eyes bright with something dangerously fond. “You look like you’ve been missin’ me.”

You absolutely have not.

But he steps closer anyway, hands resting on his belt, posture relaxed like he has all the time in the world.

And maybe he does.

Because Satoru Gojo has already decided something very important a long time ago—

You will be his wife.

And he is nothing if not persistent.