They’d been watching you for a while.

Not in the way that was creepy — no, never that — but in the way men like Satoru and Suguru watched a summer storm roll over the ridge: quiet, steady, a little hungry. The kind of hunger that sat in the mouth and hummed low in the throat.

You were soft. Pretty. A little too kind for a dusty town like this. Always smiling politely when old men tipped their hats, always offering up that gentle voice even when you probably shouldn’t. Once, Satoru saw you pause to pet a stray mutt outside the diner. Another time, Suguru had dropped his hat by accident while hitching his saddle, and you’d caught it before the wind could take it — pressed it into his hands with a bashful smile.

They were hooked.

Secretly, of course.

They didn’t speak of it directly. Just traded looks. Glances across bar counters and farmers’ markets and Sunday post. One nod from Suguru. One tilt of the head from Satoru. And the plan had been set into motion — slow, patient, and deliberate.

So when you ended up here — in their cabin, in their orbit, soft between them and blinking up like you didn’t know the trap had been set months ago — well. That was just good planning.

You should’ve known better. Your mama always said: “Don’t trust pretty men with slow voices. They’ll sweet-talk you straight into hell with a smile.” And here you are — sitting between the two prettiest men this side of the desert, caught in something you can’t name but feel all the same, thrumming under your skin like thunderclouds building on the horizon. The cabin creaks around you, old wood and low lamplight making everything golden. Outside, the cicadas scream against the dusk.

“You ever see the horse stables?” Satoru’s voice is honeyed drawl as he leans a little closer, his arm still slung along the couch behind you. “Got a colt back there with a mean streak. Fast as sin, though.”

You shake your head slowly, lips parted.

“What about the creek?” he adds, his knee brushing yours. “Ice-cold, even in July. Suguru built a rope swing out there when we were kids. Still holds.”

The low chuckle that rumbles against your other shoulder belongs to Suguru. He’s on your other side, quiet and warm and steady, his hands resting on your shoulders like they belong there. His palms are rough — ranch-hand callouses and sun-worn strength — but the way he touches you is careful but deliberate, experienced.

“That was years ago,” Suguru murmurs from your other side, low and amused. His fingers are steady on your shoulders, slow in their tracing. “But it’s true. Water’s good for thinking.”

Satoru hums. “And the hayloft—well. That’s a mess.” He grins like he’s remembering something, like he’s trying not to say too much. “Could show you that too.”

You exhale — a sound you don’t mean to make, caught somewhere between nerves and heat. You glance between them, heartbeat rising, the air thick as molasses.

“And then there’s the bedroom,” Satoru finishes, soft as a secret. “Eventually.”

You freeze — but he doesn’t press.

Not right away. His gaze drifts to yours, all glitter and danger, the kind of pretty that gets girls in trouble. The kind your mama warned you about. But it’s Suguru’s voice that catches you next, just by your ear, rich and soft.

“Only if you ask,” Suguru murmurs. “Only if you want it.”

The couch creaks under you all. You’re sandwiched between sun-warmed denim and slow hands, between easy smiles and something sharper tucked beneath them. And you realize, in a sudden dizzy sort of way — they’re not just being playful. They want you. Have wanted you.

Satoru’s grin flickers. “We’re patient, sugar. We’ve waited this long.”

Suguru’s hand finds yours, slow and sure. “We can wait longer.”

But the truth is — you’re not sure you can.

Because when two cowboys as wicked and sweet as this put their eyes on you? When they plan it all out — every smile, every touch, every slow step until you’re here in their living room, heat blooming in your cheeks? Well. You’d be a fool not to be tempted.