The words hung between us, low and intimate, like a secret he wasn't afraid to let slip. And God, it stirred something dangerous in me. My heart skipped a beat, my pulse quickening despite myself, and I hated how easily he disarmed me with just a few words.

His gaze flicked down to the brush still clutched tight in my hand, then back up to my eyes.

"Are you always this prickly, or is it just me?"

My jaw tightened at his question, every word laced with that easy, infuriating drawl, as though he was probing just to see what I'd do.

"Depends on the company," I said, the brush handle digging into my palm. There was an edge in my voice I didn't bother to hide. I was used to people either backing off or digging in, but him? He was too steady, and it was unsettling in a way I wouldn't admit.

A low chuckle escaped him. Not mocking, but... knowing. He folded his arms, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his chest, muscles shifting beneath sun-worn cotton.

"Must be some real unlucky company then," he said, his tone softening like he was letting the tension between us loosen.

Before I could find a way to respond, he took a step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us without crowding me. His hand moved—a careful reach—as though he was giving me the choice to close the distance or pull away.

"Colt Langmore."

I felt the name settle like a stone in my chest, something tightening around my ribs.

Of course. A bull rider.

It was always the same with them—the way they thought the world revolved around those eight seconds they managed to stay on the back of a wild animal. Like that brief grasp of glory gave them the right to bulldoze through life, expecting everyone to part like water around them, as if the earth itself bent under their boots.

My arms crossed. My gaze narrowed just enough to send the message. I wasn't impressed.

"Bull rider, huh?" The words came out flat. More of a statement than a question.

He tipped his head, a slight movement, the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes. He knew exactly what I was thinking. Probably heard it all before.

"That a problem?"

I lifted a brow, my voice cooling. "One of the top ones, right?"

I didn't need confirmation.

I'd heard his name whispered enough times in rodeo circles. Colt Langmore. A ghost passing through the circuits, showing up just long enough to dominate, to remind everyone who he was, before moving on. I'd heard plenty, but I'd never expected to cross paths with him. And honestly, I'd hoped it would stay that way.

His grin widened, just a fraction, like he was savoring the fact that I knew his name.

"I get by."

A small scoff escaped me before I could stop it. "Bull riders always do," I muttered under my breath. More for myself than for him. But his eyes flicked, catching the words easily. And by the look on his face, he was used to it.

"Oh, so it's bull riders you've got a problem with."

His voice was casual, teasing even, but there was something underneath it. Something more solid. A challenge, soft but unmistakable, like he was waiting to see how far I'd take this.

I held his gaze, keeping my arms crossed tight across my chest like a shield between us.

"They usually think too much of themselves for my taste," I replied, my tone steady, though I could feel the heat rising beneath my skin. My pulse quickened in a way I didn't like.

He didn't flinch. Didn't rise to the bait. His gaze stayed locked on mine, calm and unshaken, as if he wasn't in any rush to defend himself.

"Well," he said slowly, that easy drawl sliding through the air between us, "maybe some of us have a reason to."

I arched a brow, not about to let him off that easily. "You're not helping your case."

His smile didn't quite reach his eyes, but there was a flicker of something beneath the surface. Something more steady than the usual swagger I'd come to expect from men like him.

"Maybe I'm not trying," he said, his voice low, each word deliberate, sinking into the space between us. "But I'll tell you one thing. I've never wasted my time proving anything to people who've already decided what they want to believe."

There was no sharpness in his tone, no need to flex or force. Just...certainty. It made me pause, if only for a heartbeat, caught off guard by the way he didn't push, didn't try to fill the silence with empty boasts or bravado like so many others did. He just stood there, waiting, as if he had all the time in the world and no need to rush me.

It made me want to challenge him. To break that calm.

But instead, I found myself hesitating.

His head tilted, dark eyes studying me like he was weighing something, then glanced toward the arena, where the crowd hummed with anticipation.

"You'll be watching my ride then?"

The question hit me before I was ready for it. I wanted to brush him off, toss a quick, dismissive "no" his way, but Rem's ride flashed through my mind. I'd be there anyway, standing in the stands. The thought of Colt assuming I'd be watching him—for him—twisted something inside me.

The truth was, I would see his ride. Whether I cared to or not.

"Maybe," I replied, a little too sharply.

He didn't blink. Didn't flinch. His smile widened, just enough to soften the edges of his expression, but not enough to feel smug.

"I'll take that."

Before I could respond, he stepped back, tipping his hat slightly before he turned toward the arena. The air between us hummed with something unresolved, heavy with all the things left unsaid. And the crowd? They parted for him, just like they did for men like Colt Langmore, as if they knew instinctively he was someone worth watching.

Ω

Sitting in the stands, I realized watching Rem ride felt like borrowing time that never truly belonged to me.

It was in the way he moved, the roll of his shoulders just before the gate swung open, that quiet, lethal confidence that looked so effortless. For a moment, it was like I was seeing my father all over again. Rem had soaked up everything from him—every twist of the wrist, every lean into the bull's fight—and here he was, putting it all on display. It was the closest I'd ever get to watching Dad ride again, and that thought hit harder than I wanted to admit.

Maybe that was how people looked at me. Like I was just a shadow of someone who was gone.

The thought sank into my chest, and no matter how I tried to shake it, it stayed. Maybe that was why watching Rem felt different now. Harder somehow. He wasn't just riding for himself. He was carrying my father's legacy. The same one I felt dragging behind me like a chain every time I saddled up. And deep down, there was a part of me that knew he might be doing a better job at it than I ever could.

The announcer's voice broke through the hum of the crowd, sharp and booming.

"Up next, Remington Blake, hometown boy from Kaycee, Wyoming! Now, if you've seen him ride, you know what's coming—this one doesn't back down."

The roar of the crowd barely registered. My eyes were locked on Rem as he stepped toward the chute, his body calm and collected like he'd done this a thousand times. Because he had. There was a tension in the air, thick and charged, the kind that built in the heartbeat before the gate swung wide.

He gripped the rope, muscles pulled taut, the bull beneath him already thrashing, ready to burst out the second they let it loose. It was a dance I'd seen a hundred times, and for a moment, I let myself believe he was invincible. Like my father once was. Like nothing in this world could ever break him.

And maybe that was why it hurt to watch.

Because I knew better.

The gate flew open, and the bull tore out, kicking and bucking with a fury that made the ground beneath me feel unsteady. Rem moved with it, his body fluid, every twist and jerk of the bull met with a counterbalance that kept him steady and in control.

The announcer shouted the time. Six seconds, then seven, his voice climbing with the energy of the crowd, but I barely heard it. My focus was on Rem. Every shift, every pull on the rope.

And then my heart stalled.

The bull bucked violently, more than I expected, and for a split second, Rem's body snapped back like a rag doll, his hand straining against the rope. The crowd collectively gasped—a sharp, deafening intake of breath—and it felt like the entire arena was holding its pulse, waiting. My own breath caught, my heart slamming against my chest in a wild, uneven rhythm. The world narrowed, the noise dimmed to a hum, until all I could hear was the thundering beat in my ears.

This was the moment where everything teetered. One wrong move, one second too late, and it would all come crashing down. My fingers dug into my knees, the denim offering no relief from the sharp bite of my nails. I was bracing for the worst, because I'd seen this before. Seen it go wrong.

But Rem held.

He leaned into the bull's pull, his body moving as if he was never out of control in the first place. There was no hesitation, no panic. Just raw, instinctual control.

Relief slammed into me so fast it left me breathless. My fingers slowly unclenched, leaving half-moon indents on my skin, the sting a dull reminder of just how close it felt to unraveling.

The buzzer cut through the air. Eight seconds.

He did it.

The crowd roared, but it was distant, muffled, like I was underwater. All I could see was Rem, swinging off the bull, landing light on his feet, as if the whole ride had been nothing more than a casual stroll. He grinned that easy familiar grin.

His eyes found mine, and there was something there. A quiet acknowledgment. A thread pulling tight between us. But before I could dwell on it, before I could feel the full brunt of that connection, the speaker crackled to life again.

"Colt Langmore, ladies and gentlemen, straight outta Bozeman, Montana! You might remember him from that unforgettable ride in Kansas. Let's see if he can do it again today!"

I stiffened at the sound of his name, the memory of our conversation flashing through my mind. I didn't want to watch him. I told myself I didn't care. But my fingers curled tighter around the railing, still gripping from Rem's ride, and now it was for an entirely different reason.

He strode toward the chute, his shoulders loose, as if he didn't carry the weight of hundreds of eyes on him. There was something in the unhurried way he moved, something unnervingly calm, like this moment didn't demand anything from him. It was magnetic. Quiet.

And I hated how it drew me in.

Rem's ride still pulsed in my chest—the rush of relief, the pride in watching him. But as Colt settled onto his mount, I felt a new kind of tension creeping in. It wasn't like with Rem. With Colt, the air felt heavier, the anticipation thicker, as if even the crowd was holding its breath, waiting for something they couldn't name.

He gripped the rope with that same calm precision, every movement deliberate, his body coiled but steady. There was no glance to the stands, no nod to the crowd. No showmanship. Just him and the bull beneath him, ready to erupt the second the gate swung wide.

And then it did.

The bull bucked hard, twisting violently, but Colt didn't so much as blink. His body flowed with the beast's movements, every muscle in harmony with the bull's wild thrashes. His hand gripped the rope with a strength that seemed effortless, his free arm outstretched, balancing him with a grace that shouldn't belong in this chaos. He wasn't just holding on. He was in command of it.

Seven seconds in, the bull jerked again, a violent snap meant to throw him, but Colt moved as if he already knew the beast's plan. His muscles tightened, body tilting with the motion, never faltering, never losing control.

It was different from Rem's ride—so different it took a heartbeat longer for me to place why. Rem rode like it was a battle, like he was locked in a struggle for dominance. His movements were sharp, reactive, each twist a counter to the bull's strength. It was tense, raw, a test of wills that kept you on edge because every second felt like it could be the one where something broke. That was how most riders were. Pushing against the beast. Working tirelessly to stay a breath ahead.

But Colt... Colt didn't fight the bull.

He wasn't trying to tame it. Wasn't trying to prove his strength.

His movements were so smooth, so calculated, that it was almost eerie. There was no tension in his muscles, no urgency in his grip. He rode like the bull was beneath him, beneath his notice even. Like it was part of him. And when the bull jerked, Colt leaned into it without hesitation, as if he already knew the outcome. It wasn't just skill. It was like instinct. A quiet certainty.

That was what made him different. I'd been taught to see these things. To read a ride like Dad used to.

And then, just like that, the buzzer sounded. Eight seconds.

He swung off the bull with the same calm he'd mounted it with. His boots hit the dirt, steady and sure, as if he knew—no, expected—that he'd walk away unscathed. The crowd erupted around us, a wave of cheers crashing through the arena, but the sound felt distant, muffled. Like I was watching it all from far away.

It wasn't the roar of the crowd that held my attention. It was him.

He tipped his hat to the stands, slow and unhurried, like he was just another man walking off a ranch after a day's work, not a rider who'd just conquered one of the meanest bulls in the circuit. And maybe it was that, the way he carried himself without the weight of expectation, that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. He wasn't showboating. He didn't need the applause.

Hell, he probably didn't even hear it.

But then his eyes found mine across the arena, just for a second, barely more than a flicker. And something in the air shifted.

It wasn't the usual spark of arrogance I'd expect from a man who rode like that, like the world should bow at his feet. No, there was something colder in his gaze. Something that curled tight in my chest. It was unsettling, the way his eyes held mine.

It was as if, in that one glance, he was telling me without words that this wasn't about the crowd. This wasn't about the scores or the win.

My chest tightened as his gaze dropped, the moment breaking as quickly as it began. But the sensation remained. My fingers tightened against the railing as I exhaled slowly, trying to ground myself.

But the truth lingered in the back of my mind, chilling and undeniable:

This ride wasn't for them.

It wasn't for the crowd. It wasn't for the judges.

It was for me.