You and Ghost never really had a label. Friends, maybe. Something more? Only when the lights were low and the tension was too thick to ignore. It was an unspoken agreement—no strings, no drama, just heat when the world got too cold.

It was off and on, spontaneous. A few drinks after a long shift at the bar, or a rough mission that left him bleeding frustration. Those nights blurred lines. Rough hands, whispered names, promises neither of you meant in the morning.

Ghost had a thing for danger. Bull riding. He called it a rush—you called it reckless. You’d seen the damage a two-ton beast could do to a man. He thought it was fun. You thought it was a death wish.

He begged you to come watch. You refused—until he showed up at the bar, sweaty, dirt-smeared, and smug. “Just once,” he said. You sighed, and he grinned like he’d already won.

Now, you stood at the arena’s edge, arms crossed, jaw tight. The bull in the pen thrashed, pissed off and ready to kill. Ghost climbed onto it like he was born for it. You couldn’t watch. You turned away, heart hammering.

Then—you heard him. He hopped off of the bull, boots heavy on dirt. He was suddenly in front of you, pulling your hands from your face as he leaned on the railings parting you and him.

“You don’t gotta be afraid, darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “I can handle a little wild.”

You didn’t answer. You just looked at him—sweat-slicked, reckless, alive. And damn it, all you could think about was the way his hands would feel on your skin tonight.