⊹₊⟡⋆ 8 makes 1 team ⋆⟡₊⊹

mila 🎀 21+ 🪩 infj 🌸 aquarius 𝒹𝒾𝒹 𝒾 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂 𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓁?

[milatiny-xx]

hi welcome!! i'm mila! i've been a k-pop fan for a little over a year and have fallen deeply and dangerously in love with ateez. the squid game ⟶ big bang ⟶ ateez pipeline is real. i've been writing on tumblr since like 2012 (yeah i was here in the dark ages ˃̣̣̥ᯅ˂̣̣̥), and i wanted to bring my love for writing into the k-pop world!

ot8 homie hopper | ult bias: yunho u._.u

⊹₊⟡⋆ req. status: open! ⊹₊⟡⋆

⊹₊⟡⋆ [ RULES ] [ MASTERLIST ] [ TAGLIST ] [ FAQ ] ⊹₊⟡⋆

𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓊𝑒𝒹...

check back later for more updates!

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈...

check back later for more updates!

⊹₊⟡⋆ FIC RECS ⊹₊⟡⋆

everything posted on this blog is my original content, unless i specifically say otherwise. i DO NOT use ai to write (i have an english degree lol). DO NOT repost, reshare, rewrite, and/or translate my stuff on any platform or website without written consent from me. DO NOT claim my work as yours. none of the visuals (images, videos, moodboards) are intended to portray a specific race, body type, nationality, etc. they're just for vibes :)

MINORS—y'all are responsible for your own media use. while this isn't an NSFW only blog there is mature content here. i'm not responsible for any nastiness your eyes read. if you're under 18 (regardless of location) pls block my NSFW tag: #🌶️. if you're a minor and you engage with 18+ content, you take responsibility for that.

[milatiny-xx]

I lowkey dont even want smut I jst wanna bake cookies wholesomely with Yunho at night and he‘s like late cuz he‘s actually spiderman and jumps through readers window or maybe like a upside down kiss Idk Im sick of smut🙁

hi anon! ty for requesting!!

i was SO EXCITED to see this in my inbox because i've been itching to write a spider-yun fic, but i've had the WORST writer's block. totally fair to be smutted-out, so i hope this sweet little fic gives you a nice break!!

💖 read it here 💖

enjoy!! <3

[milatiny-xx]

caught red-handed| j.yh

pairing: jeong yunho x gn!reader summary: baking cookies with your boyfriend spider-man is a crazy sentence to say, but for you it's absolutely 100% real. (requested) warnings: none! wc: 1.8k a/n: i'm SO GLAD someone requested spider-yun, because when he posted THOSE photos i knew i had to write something with him as spider-man and this gave me the perfect opportunity to get my feet wet. let me know if y'all want more spideyyyy <3

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

Your arm aches as you fold the dough over another handful of chocolate chips. While you usually find baking fun and relaxing, this part sucks. You reach for more chocolate.

Bang!

Your heart leaps into your throat, chocolate chips scattering from your fist onto the counter. You whip your head toward the balcony doors where the sound came from. You wait, a bit breathless, but nothing happens. Grumbling under your breath, you wipe your hands on a towel and head toward the doors.

"Stupid birds," you mumble. "How do they not see the glass?"

You part the curtains and let out a sharp yelp. There’s a man on the other side. He groans, rubbing the back of his head with one eye squeezed shut. Yunho grimaces as he stands up straight, forces a toothy smile, and gives you a sheepish wave. With one look, you can tell he's had a long night.

His hair is a wild, tangled mess, and his cheeks are blotted with bruises. Your gaze travels down, taking in the worn blue and red suit. You spot several places where your own clumsy handiwork had stitched holes together. Now, the suit is marred by fresh slashes and stains of various colors and sources. It’s in desperate need of a wash. And so is he.

You’ve known Yunho is Spider-Man for a while now. He’s terrible at keeping secrets, especially from you. You’ve been close friends since your days at SOPA. Almost a year ago, things had shifted into something more...serious. Not that anyone else could know, of course. For protection, both yours and his, your public life has to remain strictly friendly.

You grin, the adrenaline fading into relief as you scramble to unlock the door.

"Yunho? Is everything okay? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I just overshot the landing a little. Again..."

"Well, what are you doing here?"

"I just finished a mission, and I..." He hesitates, his cheeks flushing baby pink under the glow of the balcony lantern. "I missed you."

A wide smile spreads across your face. He looks at you so sweetly, like the world's most precious puppy waiting for a treat. You swing the door wide open.

"Then you’d better come inside before someone sees you."

He beams and steps into the apartment. He inhales deeply as you shut, lock, and close the drapes over the glass doors.

"Ooh, what’s that smell?" he asks, his nose crinkling. "It smells so good."

Before you can stop him, he’s wandering toward the kitchen. The first batch of chocolate chip cookies is cooling on the counter, still warm. You follow at a distance.

"I’m making cookies. I was gonna bring them to the studio tomorrow for you and the guys. You’ve been working so hard, you especially, I thought you all deserved a treat."

He turns, his eyes wide and cheeks already stuffed. You giggle at the crumbs clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"Aww," he says through a mouthful. "You’re an angel, jagiya. I don't deserve you. No one does."

He steps closer, lowering his head. His eyes begin to flutter shut. Your hand flies out to his chest, stopping him mid-lean.

"Shower first, please," you say firmly. "And this suit is a disaster. It needs to be cleaned. The clothes you left here last time are in the dresser. Bottom left drawer. Leave the suit outside the door, and I'll wash it."

He chuckles but nods, disappearing into the bedroom without an argument. You return to your work, measuring out ingredients for the next batch of cookies while the second tray bakes. Right on cue, the timer dings. You slide on a mitt and pull the treats out from the oven.

Setting them on the island, you duck out to get the suit from outside the bathroom door. You pinch the grimy fabric between two fingers, as you carry it to the laundry room. While you're distracted prepping the machine and selecting the right settings, a series of loud noises sound from the kitchen.

"Oof, ow! Ow, ow!"

A clatter follows. You rush around the corner.

"Yunho, what—"

He freezes, a steaming cookie dangling from his fingertips. He holds it for a split second before hissing and dropping it. The cookies on the tray are scattered now, some flipped upside down, others on top of one another. Yunho’s face is bright red, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

Caught red-handed.

You sigh, crossing your arms.

"Jeong Yunho, I swear," you say, circling the island. "I just took those out, dummy. You have to let them cool down, first. Did you hurt your finger?"

He shrugs apologetically and lifts up his pointer finger. The tip is slightly red and warm when you press it quickly to your lips.

"Sorry," he whines. "They just smell so good. I’m so hungry I could eat every single one."

"Well, please don't," you laugh. "To have enough for the eight of you, plus managers and staff, I need a lot. And I already have to replace the ones you ate earlier."

You playfully swat his shoulder with the oven mitt. He murmurs a quiet "sorry" and backs away to let you rearrange the tray. He’s changed into a grey t-shirt and checked pajama pants, his hair damp and tousled from the shower. He watches in silence, his presence warm and steady behind you.

"How many more do you have to make?" he asks softly.

"Probably just one more batch to be safe. I want about 50 total so no one gets left out. Plus, I want to keep a few for myself."

"I can help."

You pause, shooting a smirk over your shoulder. "By doing what? Taste testing?"

He huffs, his lips curving into a handsome smile that makes your heart flutter. You love that smile, especially when you're the one who put it there.

"Nooo! I can do the heavy lifting. You know, the hard stuff."

"We're talking about baking cookies, Yuyu. That doesn't usually require 'heavy lifting.'"

You emphasize the last phrase with air quotes.

"Well, then, I can do the stuff you don't want to do. Please? I already messed up your count. Let me make it up to you."

You tap a wooden spoon against the counter, considering.

Your arms really are getting sore. Your gaze drops to Yunho’s biceps, toned and obvious even under a simple t-shirt. You narrow your eyes.

"Alright. Fine. You can mix. And you can grab the extra bag of sugar from the top shelf in the pantry. But absolutely no eating them. Deal?"

"Hmmm..." He pretends to think about it, raising an eyebrow. "What about sampling the dough?"

You shake your head, laughing. "Fine. One tablespoon. And that is it."

He beams, "Okay!"

Then, he clears his throat. He furrows his eyebrows and plants both fists firmly on his hips like Superman. His tone drops into a ridiculous booming superhero voice.

"Don't worry, pretty lady. I'm Spider-Man, and Spidey can do anything. I’ll get that sugar for you, no problem."

He winks, and you can't help but chuckle. He’s an idiot, but he’s your idiot.

He does his best to help, but he mostly just gets in the way or makes you laugh too hard to be productive. He sneaks way more dough than his allowance, but you let it slide. After all, he is a superhero. A few extra servings of cookie dough is the least you can do to pay him back for keeping your city safer.

It’s well after midnight by the time the cookies are baked, cooled, and packaged. The kitchen feels like an inferno and smells like a professional bakery.

Yunho changes back into his suit, cleaned and dried, preparing to head out.

"I guess I should get out of here," he says. "Practice starts early tomorrow, and who knows what evil force I'll have to stop next."

You smile sadly.

"You could stay," you suggest quietly. "Just this once."

He grins, his palm sliding against your cheek. You lean into the touch, savoring the warmth. He pulls you close, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"You don't know how badly I wish I could, jagi," he whispers. He moves back slightly, angling your face so he can catch your eye. "One day. One day soon I will. And then I’ll never leave again. Mostly because I won't be able to."

You laugh softly, and he matches your expression with a sweet, lingering look.

"My Yunho, I can't wait," you coo, resting your hands over his heart. "It is so lame dating Jeong Yunho and Spider-Man and not being able to brag about either of my boyfriends."

He chuckles, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I know. But one day, you will. I promise."

You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him softly. His arm winds around your waist, tugging you flush against him for a few heartbeats before he finally releases you. He heads for the balcony.

"Text me when you’re home," you say firmly. "I hate when you’re out this late."

"I will. And, jagiya..." You look back at him. "I love you."

"I love you, too. Now go. And be safe."

He slides the mask on and slips out. You lock the door and move toward the bedroom, a massive yawn washing over you. You’re halfway there when a familiar rhythm taps against the glass. Not a bird, this time. Definitely a Yunho.

You turn back to the balcony and peek through the curtains. You look up, meeting two white, spider-shaped eyeholes. He’s hanging upside down from the roof, feet pressed together on a strand of webbing. You giggle and slide the door open.

"Yes?"

He shrugs. "I missed you again. I need one more kiss."

You laugh, swatting at his arm, but your chest is tight with affection. You're so in love with this man it hurts.

Biting your lip to contain a smile, you rise on your tiptoes again. You reach for the seam of his mask and pull it down just enough to reveal his lips and the tip of his nose. You slide your hands around his neck, and as you move in, he slowly lowers himself on the webbing so you can reach him properly.

When you kiss him this time, it’s deeper, longer. He tastes like chocolate chips. You smile against his lips, savoring every second before pulling back slowly. You press one final, quick peck to his mouth before stepping away.

"Hehe, thanks," he says, his voice full of warmth.

"Anytime, Spidey. Oh, wait, I almost forgot..."

You reach forward, carefully tucking his mask back into place. He sighs contentedly.

"Okay, I’m going now. For real. Unless...I don't suppose I could get a few cookies to go?"

You scoff, lightly smacking the side of his masked head.

"Get out of here!"

He laughs, shooting you a wink before hoisting himself up and out of view.

"Love you! See you tomorrow!" he shouts from above.

You lock the door for the final time, shuffling toward the bedroom and yawning again. You flop onto the bed, too exhausted to even pull up the sheets.

"I love you too, Spider-Man," you whisper into the pillow.

And even though he’s gone, you know he’ll be with you in your dreams tonight.

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[milatiny-xx]

genuinely if he's not your bias like who is....????

[milatiny-xx]

whenever a new comeback happens i love how half of atiny floods youtube for the mv and the other half goes to the album first lol

[milatiny-xx]

NEEEED a series with d&d vibes!!

[milatiny-xx]

hi y'all!! now that we're into into the new year i would love to start writing again, but i want to get your input before i do!

y'all know i looove a series so i'm thinking i'll do another one like westeez but a different theme (and probably a little shorter lol).

a few of you have asked for fantasy fics - is that still something y'all would wanna read? if yes, i'd love to hear anything specific you wanna see!! like dragons, elves, faeries, ACOTAR vibes or D&D type of stuff?

if you have ideas for specific members, i'd love to hear them too! <3

[milatiny-xx]

i finally saw this whole performance on youtube and y'all.... cowboy yunho is heaven. like the gun flip??? ur joking?? this is like EXACTLY how i imagined him in his westeez fic

[milatiny-xx]

✨🏰 ateez & disney 🏰 ✨

[ masterlist | taglist ]

a/n: if y'all need to know anything about me outside of ateez, it should be that i have an OBSESSION with disney. i am a proud disney adult, and i legit don't care what anyone thinks. i think i saw someone do this with princes before?? i included a variety of disney leading men, not necessarily just princes! <3 mila

(sparkle divider by @/toastray)

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓈𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑔𝒽𝓌𝒶 │ 𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽, 𝒶𝓉𝓁𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓈: 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝑒𝓂𝓅𝒾𝓇𝑒

i kinda feel like this is a hot take but, consider...

HOT NERD

obsessive about his interests

gets excited over little things

intelligent and curious

very observant

kind-hearted

soft-spoken and gentle

can be very idealistic

a natural leader when he's in his zone

“𝒪𝒽, 𝐼 𝓈𝓌𝒾𝓂 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝒾𝓇𝓁… 𝒫𝓇-𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹, 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹. 𝒮𝓌𝒾𝓂 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹. 𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹. 𝐼 𝓈𝓌𝒾𝓂 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒽𝑜𝓃𝑔𝒿𝑜𝑜𝓃𝑔 │ 𝓅𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓅𝒶𝓃, 𝓅𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓅𝒶𝓃

i mean DUH

natural leader

free-spirited and adventurous

unafraid to be himself and refuses to be boxed in

inventive

creative and imaginative

inspires others through leadership

good at literally everything he does

can be playful and mischievous

loves childhood and play

“𝐹𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂 𝒶𝓁𝓁. 𝒞𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓂𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇, 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝑔𝓇𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓊𝓅 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓎𝓊𝓃𝒽𝑜 │ 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓅𝒽𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓅, 𝓈𝓁𝑒𝑒𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝓎

brave

literally not afraid of anything and will step up without hesitation

nonchalantly hilarious

very cheeky

strong sense of duty to protect others

warm and reliable

openly affectionate from day one

very competitive

skilled at combat (see salary lupin)

just radiates the warmest energy

“𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝒹𝑜𝓃’𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓇𝑒𝓂𝑒𝓂𝒷𝑒𝓇? 𝒲𝑒’𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝒻𝑜𝓇𝑒.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓎𝑒𝑜𝓈𝒶𝓃𝑔 │ 𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑒𝓇𝒾𝒸, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒶𝒾𝒹

gentle and kind

so extremely charming

gorgeous no matter what he's doing

almost dreamy/otherworldly

introspective

thoughtful

mysterious and different

will absolutely make sacrifices to achieve goals

the purest heart ever

can be a little aloof sometimes lol

“I 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒. 𝐼’𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓈𝒶𝓃 │ 𝓁𝒾 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔, 𝓂𝓊𝓁𝒶𝓃

this one just feels sooo right

disciplined, honorable, noble

hardworking and dedicated

holds himself to an incredibly high standard

loyal to his core

overwhelming presence when he's in his zone

can be a little intense sometimes

protective and a little obsessive about the people he loves (e.g. yeosang...)

can be both serious and silly

HOT BODY, need i say more?

“𝒰𝓂… 𝒴𝑜𝓊… 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒾 │ 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓁𝒾𝒸𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹

PLEASE tell me y'all see the vision here...

whimsical and eccentric at times

unpredictable and chaotic

unique and owns it

lives by his own rules

wildly creative and the BEST at what he does

expressive through fashion and general aura

loyal and sincere

feels very deeply, sometimes too much

can seem carefree and confident, but actually has so much tenderness under the surface

“𝐼’𝓂 𝒶𝒻𝓇𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝓈𝑜. 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝓀𝑒𝓇𝓈. 𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝐼’𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓇𝑒𝓉. 𝐴𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔 │ 𝓃𝒾𝒸𝓀 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝒹𝑒, 𝓏𝑜𝑜𝓉𝑜𝓅𝒾𝒶

i again feel like this is lowk a hot take but ik y'all see it right?

witty and sarcastic

clever and so funny

can be a bit of a troublemaker

will call you out on your bullshit (and will be right)

doesn't take shit from ANYONE

flirty and teasing

sexy in a mischievous but charming way

will lay down his life to save the people he loves

sometimes puts up a playful front to hide his vulnerability

“𝐼𝓉’𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝒶 𝒽𝓊𝓈𝓉𝓁𝑒, 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒿𝑜𝓃𝑔𝒽𝑜 │ 𝓀𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑜𝒻𝒻, 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓏𝑒𝓃

BIG TEDDY BEAR

strong and perfect for cuddles

loyal and dependable

grounded, steady, stable

will absolutely make jokes at your expense

strong moral compass

extremely protective

very much "if they wanna get to you, they have to go through me"

gets embarrassed too easily and its so cute

acts too tough to show affection but secretly adores it

“It’𝓈 𝒪𝓀𝒶𝓎, 𝑀𝓎 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝐼𝓈 𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝐹𝓇𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓁𝑒.”

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[milatiny-xx]

christmas with ateez!!!

a/n: merry christmas week to all who celebrate! and happy holiday season to everyone else who might be celebrating during december or in january! i was watching some of ateez's old christmas videos yesterday and the ideas started sprouting like weeds lol. i hope everyone has a wonderful rest of 2025 and a great start to 2026 with friends, family, and loved ones! stay healthy and stan ateez <3

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

(christmas divider by @/chateaubarnes)

⋆꙳❅*❆ hongjoong

wool sweaters, warm knitted scarves, thrifting for ugly Christmas sweaters, sharing winter gloves, bundled up in the same coat, holiday music on the radio, slow dancing to vinyl records, love actually, dare I say sexy santa, smells like nutmeg and cloves.

⋆꙳❅*❆ seonghwa

hot tea with honey and lemon, cinnamon cookies, warm fresh bread, twinkly fairy lights, stuffed animals, building legos, gifts wrapped to perfection, the nutcracker, secret santa organizers, smells like cinnamon and vanilla.

⋆꙳❅*❆ yunho

hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, rich warm soup, christmas tree with too many ornaments, glitter everywhere, big fluffy socks, snowball fights, cold nose kisses, milk and cookies for santa, warming up by the fire, smells like chocolate and peppermint.

⋆꙳❅*❆ yeosang

snow angels in fresh snow, snow globes, warm candied nuts, christmas markets, heated blankets, puffer jackets, baking and decorating christmas cookies, drifting asleep watching snow fall, gift baskets for everyone, smells like honey and caramel.

⋆꙳❅*❆ san

late night snow walks, kissing snowflakes off your nose, blowing on your cold hands, building a snowman, cozy cafés, candied fruit, decorating the christmas tree, caroling, holiday outfits for your stuffies, smells like orange spice and marshmallows.

⋆꙳❅*❆ mingi

forehead kisses by the fireplace, drawing shapes on frosted windows, christmas movie marathons, handmade ornaments, candy canes, fuzzy ear muffs, oversized sweaters and sweatshirts, matching christmas outfits, angel tree shoppers, smells like spiced apples and wine.

⋆꙳❅*❆ wooyoung

gingerbread house decorating, COOKING and BAKING, sprinkles and icing, handmade holiday cards, ribbons everywhere, hiding gifts around the house, mistletoe, matching pajamas, duetting classic christmas songs, smells like brown sugar and gingerbread.

⋆꙳❅*❆ jongho

christmas wreaths, boots crunching in the snow, ice skating, visiting holiday light displays, your hands in his pockets to stay warm, giant teddy bears, holiday cocktails, warm candlelit baths, crooners christmas music only, smells like pine and balsam.

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[milatiny-xx]

7 out of 8 so far in for ur westeez collection and I still think of your wooyoung one 🙏 absolute perfection

I never tend to find myself revisiting a writing on here but YOUUU you have such immersive and creative talent that this particular wooyoung fic & others linger in my mind <3

The tension you write I FEEL IN MY CHESTTT you do so, so good

awww :') anon you're too sweet!!! i'm so happy you enjoyed westeez! i had a blast writing it. and i'm very thankful for the kind words about my writing.

an author is always glad to hear her work is appreciated!! 💖 💖

[milatiny-xx]

westeez was genuinely perfect, I would love a fantasy series maybe with elves and wizards and hybrids, that vibe

ty!! i love this idea! fantasy is my ish so i'd looove to do it <3

[milatiny-xx]

ride or die | j.yh

⊹₊⟡⋆ Westeez Series | Part 8 of 8 ⊹₊⟡⋆

pairing: cowboy!yunho x cowgirl!reader summary: You ride hard, punch harder, and don’t need saving. But you just might have room in the saddle for someone who knows how to hold on. tags: cowboy/wild west AU, mild enemies to lovers, secret identity (fem!reader disguised as a man), slow burnnn, hurt/comfort, a tad bit of era-accurate misogyny, NSFW/18+/MDNI (BDSM—bondage + blindfold, oral—f receiving, fingering, cowgirl and lotus positions, soft!dom!yunho, switch!reader, the hat stays ON, unprotected P in V—and for the last time in this series a reminder to WRAP IT) wc: 12.2k (WHOOPS can u tell yuyu's my ult bias) a/n: was this fic perhaps a bit self-serving...um yeah and what about it? had to finish the series strong duh. if god is good, may we all meet cowboy yunho again in our dreams tonight <3

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

PROLOGUE

Dawn’s first light paints the Oklahoma sky in streaks of pink and gold. The air is still cool, carrying the sharp bite of the night’s chill. You inhale the scent of campfire with each breath. You guide Daisy, the American paint horse you’ve ridden for ten years, toward the company’s outpost. You ride in slowly, letting Daisy sniff her way through the tufts of grass along the dusty ground.

You’d risen long before the sun crested over the horizon. Waking early comes easy to you now, after all these years. Most mornings, you climb out from your bedroll under the stars, take a gander down to whatever body of water—pond, river, or creek—is closest, and splash icy water on your face.

Then, you braid your hair. It's taken you years of practice to get it right. It needs to be tight enough so that you can coil it up underneath your weathered cowboy hat. Nowadays, you can hardly see yourself in the old desilvered mirror you’ve carried around for years, but it works well enough to help you tuck any stray strands away. Your button-up shirt is loose, vest secured up to your neck, chaps worn soft from use. 

Freedom isn’t free out here.

In your case, you pay for it through a disguise perfected over many years. It could be worse. If dressing up like a man is the price you owe in exchange for the privilege of riding free on the plains, you’ll pay it each and every time.

To anyone watching, you’re just another lean cowboy reporting for duty. You’re not afraid; you can hold your own against any man, woman, or beast who dares cross you. Posing as one of the boys just makes everything simpler. You deal with fewer questions, stares, and assumptions about what a woman can or can’t handle on the trail.

You dismount, boots crunching the ground below you. No need to secure Daisy to the post—she’s too well-trained to go wandering off. The words Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company glisten in gilded print on the frosted glass window of the door when you push it open. Old man Hargrove is already up, sitting behind his desk with a tin mug of steaming coffee. A couple of other workers mill about the office, but it’s quieter than usual this morning. Hargrove lifts his chin at the sound of your boots clicking across the wooden floor.

“Mornin’, kid,” he rasps, voice rougher than gravel.

“Hey, boss,” you reply in a tone lower than your natural register. You slide into a wooden chair in front of his desk. “Got somethin’ good for me today?”

He sips his coffee slowly and eyes you over the rim.

“Oh, I got everythin’ good that’s out there. But I think you’ll want this ‘un.”

He slides a heavy sheet of folded paper across the desk. You flip it open, eyes skimming. The contract order contains all the necessary details: client information, number of cattle requested, preferences and specifications for that cattle, and payment information.

An official-looking symbol is stamped over the top right-hand corner. Your eyes widen when you read United States Army scrawled across the top of the page. The request calls for at least 700 horses in good health and maturity for service with a preference for mustangs. Specifications detail geldings, dark bays or browns.

“United States Army, huh?” you ask, eyebrows raising.

Old man Hargrove hums and nods slowly.

“Told you I got the good stuff. This ‘un’s a tall order. Cavalry needs a string of mustangs delivered ’fore first snow. ’Parently, they ain’t skilled ’nuff to rope up the wild ’uns up in the high plains. Pay’s double if you bring ’em in early.”

On his cue, you take a gander at the bottom half of the order. A greedy smirk spreads across your face. $120 per head, with premium of double pay for early arrival or extras above the contracted quota. You feel the familiar thrill spark in your chest. Months on the plains—no towns, no rules, no people. Just the ride, the wind, and the wide-open sky.

“That’s big time,” you comment. “I’ll take it.”

Hargrove grunts in approval.

“Knew you would.”

“I assume I ain’t ridin’ out by myself? 700 horses is quite a haul for one person.”

You meet the old man’s knowing eyes. There’s a familiar sternness in them that you’ve grown to appreciate over the years. You already know the answer to your question, anyway. He never lets you ride out alone. He’s known your secret for years. Never once has he revealed it to another soul, aside from your riding partner, Colton. At the end of the day, results are what matter to Hargrove. And you always deliver.

“You’ll ride lead with Colton. He’s already waitin’ out by the south gate.”

You nod, swiping up the contract and pushing yourself to a stand. You turn toward the door, but his voice freezes you in your tracks.

“You got two others with you. They’re new ‘round here—just rode down from North Dakota. ‘Sposed to be decent ropers. Rendezvous point’s the river fork, ten miles east.”

You sigh, grimacing. You were really looking forward to a months-long ride with Colton. You don’t have to cover up around him, since he already knows about you. You’ve gone on hundreds of rides together. The two of you make a damn good team, and this particular contract is worth more than your last twelve combined. You cannot have two pathetic tenderfoots slowing you down.

“Fine,” you say through clenched teeth.

As you reach for the doorknob, you hear Hargrove’s rasped voice from behind you, “You come back in one piece, kid. Got it?”

“Don’t worry, old man. I’d never let the good ol' U.S. government’s money go to waste.”

You offer a smirk as you swing the door closed. Tucking the contract into your vest, you mount Daisy and kick off toward the south gate. Colton is waiting exactly where Hargrove said he’d be. He lounges against his big bay gelding, hat tipped back, eyes closed as he soaks in the morning rays.

“Long time no see,” you shout as you ride up next to him.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls, grinning. “I was wonderin’ if you’d chickened out this time.”

“Me? Chicken out? Nah, that ain’t in my bones, darlin’.”

Colton chuckles, swinging up onto his horse’s back. He’s never treated you any different. He’s never made a fuss. He’s always just seen you as a partner. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Heard we’re stuck with a coupla Dakota boys this time ‘round,” you say as you both start off toward the rendezvous point.

“Yeah. Hope they can sit a horse better than they talk.”

“Long as they rope half-decent and shut up, I ain’t got a problem. Months, Colton. Real trail time.”

Colton inhales deeply and then releases it.

“My favorite kind.”

You adjust your hat, making sure it’s secured around your chin and won’t fly off during your ride. Then, you pull loose the bandana from your neck. The once bright red piece of cloth has been tarnished so much from the sun and the dirt that it’s turned into more of a red clay hue. No worries. With this new money, you could buy 15 brand new bandanas. You secure the fabric around your nose and mouth with expert precision, leaving just enough space for you to peer out.

New partners means new eyes. Also means that you’re no longer you. Now, you’re Riley, the quiet young cowboy who works hard and doesn’t talk much. You’ve found it’s better, anyway, to let your work speak for you when it comes to meeting new people.

Side by side, you and Colton ride out through the gate. The outpost shrinks behind you as the vast plains open ahead.

Off on another adventure. You can hardly wait.

PART ONE

The river along the fork in the road shimmers like blue-tinted glass under the morning sun. Ten miles pass easily between you and your partner. You see the two Dakota boys before they see you. Waiting on the other side of the bank, their forms are nothing but shadow. You slow Daisy to a stop underneath the shade of a tree and glance at Colton. Your partner pauses next to you.

“Welp, there they are,” he says.

“Mhm,” you hum in agreement, unsure about your new partners.

Daisy’s hooves splash quietly in the low-standing water as you carefully guide her across the stream. The bank on the other side is a bit steeper, so you lean forward as Daisy trots up and over it. The Dakota ropers turn toward you as you emerge over the top.

“Howdy,” Colton calls out, reining in just ahead of you. “You the boys from Dakota working the cavalry job?”

“Yeah, you the others from the agency?” one of them—a smaller, rougher-looking one, replies.

Colton tosses his head toward you. Reaching into your vest, you draw out the contract. You unfold it and hold it forward so they can see the red stamp on the top corner. They follow suit, providing their version of the same contract they must have received from their own agency.

“Well, I’m Colton Reeves. This is Riley Oakley,” Colton says, gesturing to you when he shares your pseudonym.

“Ross Morrow,” the rough one answers back. He points at his partner. “And Jeong Yunho. Heard a lot ‘bout y’all.”

Colton laughs.

“Good things, I hope.”

As they talk, you size up your new team members. The shorter one, Ross, is perched on a chestnut stallion. His gear is strapped on but somewhat haphazardly. Much of it looks in desperate need of repair or replacement. His clothes, too, are worn and faded. His face is shadowed by an orange-colored beard and long, unkempt hair that sticks out from the back of his brown hat.

The other one, the taller one, sits comfortably. The reins attached to his black horse rest on the saddle and not in his hands, telling you he has trust in and control over the animal. He has broad shoulders that fill out a faded blue shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His forearms are sun-browned and corded with muscle all the way down to his gloved hands. His brown cowboy hat is tipped back just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and a mouth with a noticeable cupid’s bow. Your gaze drops to the rope secured at his side. It’s clearly well-used but meticulously maintained and coiled carefully so as to avoid any unnecessary damage while traveling. His weight is shifted slightly toward the right side where the rope hangs. Muscle memory. All unconscious habits of someone who genuinely knows what they’re doing.

“So, uh…your friend always this quiet, or what?” Ross’s question brings you back to the current moment.

“Oh, nah,” Colton answers for you. “He just don’t talk too much.”

Your partner glances back, eyebrows raised to silently ask if you’re alright. You nod twice. When your eyes slide over, they lock with the tall cowboy. Ross had introduced him as Yunho. Unusual name. Clearly not from this area. He stares at you, interest evident in his expression. You hold his gaze. You don’t back down from any man. It’s not your style.

“Well, y’all any good with a rope?” Colton asks.

Yunho tears his expression away to look at your partner.

“Good enough, I hope,” he answers. His voice is smooth like a river stone.

“Alright,” Colton says, nodding in approval. “Guess we’d better get goin’, then. Herd ain’t gonna wait up for us. Riley and I’ll take the lead, if y’all don’t mind too much. We've worked this land up, down, and sideways, so we know it good.”

Both Dakota boys nod in agreement. Colton guides his horse past them, taking the lead spot in your pack of four. You slink up next to him. A few moments later, the other ropers fall in behind you.

“Whatcha think?” Colton asks quietly.

Keeping your attention forward, you answer, “Tall one’s an asset. He knows his way ‘round a rope. I can tell. The short one…maybe he’s got a good personality.”

Colton chuckles, shaking his head.

“I’ll take half over zero,” he replies.

You travel northwest, following the faint game trails that lead up toward the high plains where the wild herds run this time of year. The river continues to flow beside you, offering a source of fresh water and a marker for your mental map.

Conversation is light. As usual, Colton does most of the talking. You say nothing and keep to yourself, opting to listen instead. Your partner drones on about your experiences on past drives—answering questions about migration patterns and weather, sharing stories like the time you’d shot a mountain lion up in the hills and the winter you’d delivered a herd through a blizzard.

Both Dakota boys seem interested. You refuse to look behind you, but it feels like one of them is watching you. You’ll have to speak sooner or later. For no other reason than to take some suspicion off yourself. Over the years you’ve learned that nobody likes a silent person; something in that quiet, it makes them uneasy, makes you seem untrustworthy. Gotta give a little to get a little, as Hargrove always says.

The hills that roll out before you are dotted with wildflowers and weeds. A tree or two have sprouted up randomly here and there. The air smells fresh and clean. You can breathe easily, even under the bandana. When the sun begins to dip low, you start scanning for a good place to set up camp for the night. You and Colton agree to settle beside a group of trees near the river bank.

Colton enlists Ross to help him scout for something to eat. They disappear into the forest, leaving you at camp. Yunho takes it upon himself to find firewood. He says as much to you before he ducks into the brush. You keep quiet and begin unloading your and Colton’s packs. You set up your bedrolls and pull out the cooking materials you brought. By the time you’re finished with that, Yunho has returned with the wood.

Finding a flat spot, you kick away some loose stones and get to work on starting the fire. While you arrange the kindling and size up which rock to strike the flint with, Yunho politely approaches.

“Need a hand?” he asks.

You don’t look at him.

“Nope. I got it,” you reply gruffly.

In contrast to your normal voice, Riley’s tone is quiet, low, and quick. Colton has helped you work on it throughout the years, but you’ll never sound like a grown man. You just figure speaking fast means people don’t always hear the femininity in your voice.

This Dakota boy seems so kind…you hope he doesn’t find you rude. But, truthfully, you don’t need his help. You’ve started a fire a thousand times. It comes easy. Within a few seconds, the flames are crackling higher into the purple air.

“Wow, impressive,” he mutters before turning to set up his bed.

Colton and Ross return a few moments later with a handful of rabbits. You’ve already put the coffee pot on, the heat welcome as the night’s chill settles on the plains. You assist your partner in cooking the rabbits, remaining quiet throughout the evening.

Your stomach growls. But you hate eating around others. The bandana has to stay on to conceal your identity, which makes it very difficult to enjoy your meal. All you can do is lower the fabric to your chin. You dip your head and let the brim of your hat cover as much of your face as possible. As soon as you finish eating, the bandana goes back up.

On a moonless night, the campfire provides the only light for your crew as you work together to set up the temporary holding pen you’ll use to corral the horses you catch. A little over an hour later, your work is finished for the night.

You position your bedroll toward the edge of camp. The ring of light from the fire ends just before it, allowing you to sleep in the shadows. You turn your back on the party, pull the bandana down to your neck, and tug the woven quilt up to your nose. You overhear Ross whisper to Colton about it, asking him what your deal is. Colton, bless him, answers by saying that you sleep this way to keep the bugs off of you overnight. You turn in first and agree to take the last watch of the night.

The next morning breaks sharp and pale, the kind of light that makes the prairie look like it goes on forever in every direction. Already awake for the watch, you’re saddled up and ready to go before anyone else. The group heads further into the plains. By that afternoon, you spot your first herd. Colton slows your pack as you crest a hill. Wild horses spread across the high grass, tails flicking.

“Alright, we’ll work the edges and push what we can back toward the corral,” Colton explains. “I usually ride out furthest to start the push. Riley’s my wing rider, since he’s got good balance on the back of a horse. He’s got a knack for keepin’ horses from breakin’ off.”

“I’m best as a hold-back man,” Ross says. “I got good eyes, so I can watch the back door and get the gate closed after they’re inside the pen.”

“I usually ride the wing, just like Riley,” Yunho adds, looking over at you. You glance up, catching his gaze again. “I can take the right side.”

You hesitate for a moment, looking him up and down. You nod. With everyone feeling comfortable in their roles, Colton takes off toward the back side of the herd to start pushing them forward.

As the wing riders, you and Yunho will focus on urging the herd toward the corral from each side. Colton will cut off their escape from the back and continue forcing them forward. Once the horses hit the mouth of the v-shaped opening of the corral, you and Yunho will peel off and let Colton run them down the funnel and into the pen. Finally, Ross will catch any stragglers from the back and secure the gate on foot once the herd is inside.

Surprisingly, your first drive is an overwhelming success. You catch about 20 wild horses in the pen. A couple slip out of your reach—perfectly normal for a small crew of only four. A few need to be released for various reasons which make them unfit for the army: any mares, smaller horses, any injured animals, etcetera. Since it’s your first day, you ignore the urge to chase after any of the breakaways. You’ll have plenty of time to round up more, especially if your team continues clicking as it did today.

Life moves similarly over the next week. In the morning, you rope the horses you want to keep, tie them nose to tail in a line, and tug them behind. You herd during the day. Each of you picks up a night shift, singing or talking to the captured horses so they can get used to human voices.

One night, you wake with a desperate need to pee. You slip quietly from your bedroll to relieve yourself in the woods. As you button up your pants, a low, smooth voice carries through the darkness. You carefully creep through the tree line. Hiding behind it, you peer out and find yourself staring at the corral. The singing's coming from the rider. Yunho...it's his watch.

Your eyebrows lift. He sings well. His voice is rich, deep, and smooth like distant thunder rolling over the plains or the velvet fabric of an expensive party dress. His tone is stable, controlled. He sings effortlessly. The melody is simple, almost sad.

As you spy on him, something warm and unsteady swims in your gut. It shocks you into reality. You straighten and physically shake yourself. Bewildered, you accidentally step on a twig. It snaps underneath you. Yunho's head jerks toward your direction, and you grimace. His voice goes quiet as he listens.

You stay frozen and wait for him to turn back to the herd. When he finally does, you hurry back to your bedroll before anything else happens.

You toss and turn that night, the haunting melody playing over and over in your head. His smooth, melodic voice like silk drifting in your mind.

On your third day of driving, you decide to start going for the runaways. Yunho picks up on it quickly, joining your efforts. At first, the competition is friendly. He tips his hat to you when you nag a stray, and you nod in respect when he turns one back toward the corral.

You hit your first rough day a week in. Bad weather rolls in and out overnight, leaving the ground muddy and soft. The group rides out in the morning but no herds are near. After a long day of watching the horizon line for absolutely nothing, your eyes are tired. You almost don’t believe them when they land on a lone horse in the distance. But when you squint, it comes into view.

Yunho must have seen him at the same second you did. You both spur at once. Daisy stretches out underneath you, ears flat. She loves the chase almost as much as you do. Yunho’s horse is longer-legged. He gains ground fast, rope already unhitched from its perch at his side. But you're a better rider. You push Daisy forward just as Yunho rises in the stirrups, arm whipping forward. He’s going for the heel catch—clean and textbook.

Not on your watch.

You unlatch your own rope, twirling it smaller, tighter, and attack the sprinting horse from the side opposite Yunho. The rope snaps out like a whip crack, settling perfectly just around the animal’s neck. Yunho’s heel loop kisses empty air and falls flat. You tug back on the rope, pulling the wild horse to a gentle stop.

Since you’re far enough away that Yunho won’t be able to hear you, you speak gently to the horse, cooing like a mother to a child, to keep it calm. You fade into silence as you saunter up toward the Dakota cowboy with your catch in tow.

“That one was mine, Riley,” he says, but there’s a toothy grin on his face.

You clench your teeth to keep your own smile at bay.

“Was it?” you tease. You mime peering closer at the horse, exaggerating the movement. “Don’t look like it to me.”

He chuckles, tongue poking into his cheek.

“Hm…challenge accepted.”

You just tap your hat brim and lead your prize away.

You hadn’t really meant to antagonize him. But that day sets the tone.

From that moment forward, it’s a fight between you. Yunho steals lone mustangs and runaways from you; you cut him off and snatch horses from under his nose. Colton and Ross laugh so hard they accidentally let some of your catches escape. When the Dakota boys are out of earshot, Colton pokes fun at you.

“Someone’s got a crush,” he says in a low voice.

“Shut up,” you hiss.

What should have been an easy way to make money has turned into all-out war. Though it appears to be a joke to the boys, it’s nothing of the sort to you. They don’t understand. They could never understand what it’s like for you. Under all those clothes, under the binding wrapped tightly around your chest, you’re still a woman. That means you have to work harder, be better. While the three of them laugh and joke about it, you rage silently within your heart.

Ross is the first to suggest keeping a tally system. You can’t prove it but you’re almost positive that he and Colton are placing bets behind your backs.

The formal competition begins on the tenth day. Having roped in a good chunk of healthy horses yesterday—bringing the grand total to just over 200—you all agree that you've earned a break from the routine today. Instead, you and Yunho will face off, trying to snag as many wild horses as possible.

By noon, the tally is even at three each. Both of you are sweated through, horses lathered, ropes fraying at the ends from overuse. Your audience appears to enjoy the chase for the first half of the day but, when lunchtime rolls around, Ross suggests you both call it quits and accept a tie.

“No!” you shout, completely forgetting to disguise your voice. You clear your throat, trying to control the octave. “We don’t stop ‘til it’s finished.”

You turn to stomp back toward Daisy, but someone catches your arm. Rage flares. Your head snaps over your shoulder, curses ready to fly from your tongue. It’s Colton. His eyebrows are knitted, concern clear as day. He yanks you over to the side.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself, kid,” he says quietly. “It ain’t no big deal. You’ve shown you can hold your own. But that’s enough now.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” you spit, wrenching your arm free. To Yunho, “We gonna do this, or what?”

His eyebrows furrow for a moment. But he clenches his jaw and nods. You ride out, a safe distance between you. Nothing stirs on the horizon for several minutes.

“Maybe we should head back in,” he suggests, looking over at you. "We haven't eaten in hours."

You remain frozen, lips pressed tightly shut under your bandana. A few silent moments pass.

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” he continues, tone a little icy, “why you don’t like me or whatever, but I-”

He must have seen it in his peripherals. Your eyes widen. A magnificent stallion—huge build, muscles taut, coppery coat shimmering in the afternoon sunshine. A perfect specimen, so fine he’d probably fetch a bonus just by himself.

You and Yunho share one quick glance before you both take off. You ride neck-and-neck, your horses creating a chorus that sounds like thunder as they rip the ground away under their hooves. The stallion dodges left; Yunho follows. You cut across, forcing the horse to the right. Whether you mean to or not, you’re working as a team.

That doesn’t last long. When you top a hill after the beast, you both reach for your ropes. Completely blindsided by the competition, neither of you pay attention. You throw the lasso at the same time. Your ropes both land around its neck, but you pull back in different directions.

You gasp, the rope slipping from your gloved hand. You watch Yunho’s lasso do the same. Instinctively, you pull back on Daisy’s reins. Yunho follows. You both skid to a stop, dust swirling up into your faces. You look up just in time to watch the stallion clear another hill and sprint away.

Out of reach now.

Not to mention that he's run away with your best rope. You won’t be able to replace it until you get back into town where you can visit your trusted ropemaker.

Your blood boils. From your peripherals, you see Yunho hop down from his black horse. He stomps toward you, finger accusingly pointed.

“Hey, what the hell are you—” he shouts.

You dismount and waste no time. Without hesitation, you spin and ram your knuckles into the side of his face. He stumbles back a few steps, hand moving to his jaw. He looks up at you, mouth agape.

“That was my best rope, asshole!” you yell, forgetting again about your tone of voice.

“You almost got both of us killed! And you’re worried about your rope?”

You lunge forward, hands connecting with his chest. He stumbles back. Your fingers curl into his shirt. You tug side to side and try to bring him down. He fights back, hands grasping at your shoulders. He’s definitely stronger than you. But he must be too surprised to hold up, because he tumbles onto the ground straight into a heap of mud. You land on top, knees pinned to his chest, shirt fisted in your hands.

Both of you freeze, chests heaving. His hat is gone. It’s rolled somewhere into the distance, forgotten. You glare down at him with clenched teeth. He stares up at you, eyes surprisingly gentle. Your expression falters when an unwanted churning turns in your stomach. Your breaths mingle in the air between you. Suddenly, he does a double-take, eyes widening. Your eyebrows furrow in confusion.

And, then, you realize.

The bandana around your face has been pulled down onto your neck. He must have snagged it accidentally when you took him down. Panic shocks through you. You reach up. Your hat's gone, too. Your long, braided hair spills over your shoulder.

For one stunned heartbeat, you just stare at each other.

“Well, shit,” he breathes. “You’re a girl.”

You scramble up, pushing hard on his chest out of spite. You gather your hat, jam it low, and snatch the ruined bandana from the mud. In that time, Yunho has gotten to his feet and brushed himself off.

Heat flashes up your neck—anger or something worse, you aren’t sure. You spin, the toe of your boot catching him square on the shin. He doubles over with a strangled grunt.

“That’s for the catch, rope, and money you just lost me,” you snap, already striding for Daisy.

Without another word, you swing up onto your horse and tear back toward camp at lightning speed. The bandana’s soaked and useless now, so your face is totally exposed. The hat lasts about three strides before you rip it off to keep the mud from dripping into your eyes.

Colton and Ross are waiting when you thunder into camp. They greet you but freeze the moment you turn toward them.

Colton’s eyes bulge, mouth half-open like he’s forgotten every word he knows. He stares, utterly speechless, clearly desperate to ask what the hell happened but not sure where to start. Ross doesn’t say anything either; he just watches in stunned silence as you stomp past them and vanish into the trees behind the campsite.

PART TWO

The fire has burned down to a low, orange glow. It casts flickering shadows across the camp. Colton and Ross turned in early; you figure Colton must have explained your situation and, God-willing, Ross is accepting of it. Otherwise, you would be answering questions into the night or dealing with a situation much, much worse.

You sit on the far side of the flames, your skinning knife in hand. You sharpen it with short, vicious strokes. The anger from earlier still simmers in your veins, hot enough to burn iron. Boot steps crunch softly on the dry leaves.

Yunho pauses at a respectful distance. His hands are held up, like he’s approaching some sort of feral animal. A brown bottle dangles loosely from two long fingers.

“I come bearing a peace offering,” he says softly.

You glare at him for a moment and then flick the knife point toward the open space on the log beside you. He settles in, careful not to crowd you but close enough that your stomach twists again.

You’ve spent your entire life, as long as you can remember, around men. Most of them, disgusting and dirty. They’re working men with rough callouses and hardened exteriors. The majority of them only have access to a bath once every six months.

But Yunho…he’s not like that. He’s cleaner, somehow, less grimy.

He yanks the cork and offers the bottle to you. You lean away, eyeing it suspiciously. He chuckles.

“Just whiskey. I promise.”

You stare at it for a moment before giving in. You swipe the bottle and take a long drink. It sears down your throat but settles pretty smooth. It tastes expensive. When you hand it back, he drinks, too.

“So, I’m assuming Riley isn’t your real name,” he starts.

“You assume correct.”

He waits, doesn’t push, just passes the bottle over again.

“I don’t suppose you’re gonna tell me what it really is?”

“Sure,” you reply, taking another swig. “You just let me know when hell freezes over.”

He laughs, the sound warm and friendly. You stare into the fire, watching the embers dance in the wind. He doesn’t ask you to explain any more than that, so you aren't really sure why you do.

“Out here a woman alone’s got three choices: a wife, a whore, or a corpse,” you explain. “Wasn't interested in any of that. So I made my own choice.”

“How’d you wind up out here? Doing this?”

“My parents died when I was ‘lil. Some flu or somethin’. Wiped out half my town, but it spared me, for some reason. I begged and stole for a few years to get by. Then, I heard some men talkin’ ‘bout jobs. So, I followed ‘em and wound up at the door of Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company. Old man Hargrove, the contractor there, took pity on me. I was half-starved and prolly looked like a mangy dog.” Yunho chuckles softly. “He took me in. He didn’t really know how to raise a girl, so I just got thrown in with the boys. He taught me everything I know—how to rope, herd, survive. I had to figure out a lot of it by myself, but I didn’t mind.”

“How come you keep doing it?”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs, eyes flicking up and down your body. You feel heat creeping into your cheeks.

“Why do you stay out here, doing hard labor work? You’re plenty pretty enough. I’m sure some rich man would take you as his wife. You wouldn't have to struggle to survive out here anymore."

“Well…because I love the work,” you reply. “The wind in my face all day, Daisy runnin’ beneath my feet, the wide-open sky before me. I’d never give it up. For anything.”

You look at him sideways. He’s smiling, a knowing glint in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. Just nods. Silence settles for a few moments.

“Only downside is that no one really, truly understands,” you continue quietly. “They never really know what it feels like. It gets…lonely sometimes.”

Yunho is quiet so long, you wonder if he’s stopped listening. Then, softly, “You don’t have to be lonely tonight.”

Your eyes go wide. Turning your head, you catch him watching you. Firelight dances in his gaze and there’s something so endearing about it. He reminds you of a puppy, looking so earnest and sweet. You feel a pull in your lower belly again, the same one that had come and gone a few times before. His eyes flicker down to your lips. He gulps and forces his gaze back to yours.

You snatch the bottle from his hand, drink deeply for courage, and then hand it back.

“Not tonight,” you say sternly. “But keep it up, Dakota boy, and maybe we’ll see.”

With that, you rise from your seat and head toward your bedroll. It takes him a second before he jumps to his feet.

“Ah, n-no! Wait, that’s not what I meant. I...I-,” he stutters, obviously terrified that his accidental come-on attempt had offended you.

You don’t react, just giggle to yourself as you settle in for sleep.

The next several weeks blur into a rhythm. During the day, you ride forward, herding and roping any wild horses you come across. You and Yunho spend most of your time together. You’ve grown close.

You never explained to Colton or Ross what went on between you to put a stop to the war that had been brewing. You just let them assume that whatever had happened out on the plains that day set everything right. They don’t question it, either. They seem perfectly content that the two of you are working together so well. Even your horses seem to fall into step like they’ve known each other for years.

At night, after the others slip into sleep, you share whiskey or wine or whatever you have on hand. Yunho tells you about the stars; he knows so much about them. He points out constellations and planets. Out here in the wilderness, you can see them all. Funny…you’ve never really stopped to look up at them before.

One night, he comes over to your bedroll. You're awake but pretend to be asleep since you're dying to know what he's up to. More tenderly than you ever thought possible, he moves a strand of hair from your face. He strokes your cheek with his knuckle and whispers something. You don't catch what he says, but it's something sweet. You can tell by the tender way he says it.

In exchange for his star knowledge, you’ve been teaching him how to whip-crack a lasso. It’s something you learned from another roper who hangs around the cattle company a lot. If you do it just right, the snap sounds like thunder, it’s so loud. You laugh freely when the rope tangles around his boot and gently correct his form when you can.

It’s innocent. Mostly.

You can’t help but appreciate his long, slender fingers. You like the way they flex around the reins. It feels like electricity when they brush against your arm or tangle with your digits when he passes the bottle. He must know you like it; he draws attention to them far more than necessary.

Not that you would dare to throw stones. You’re doing it, too. He watches your hips when you ride. You noticed one afternoon when you turned to ask him something. You'd caught his stare zeroed in on your ass. He must like the way you shift in the saddle. So, naturally, you do it more.

“You ride like you were born in a saddle,” he says quietly one afternoon. “It’s real nice to look at, but makes it sort of hard to focus.”

You don't know what to say. You just watch him ride ahead of you, smirk tugging at his mouth.

A few more weeks slip by, the herd growing larger behind you—nearing four hundred horses now. The days start to feel less like working and more like spending time with friends. You’ve let your guard down. No bandana unless you’re near a town. Your hair stays loose under your hat more often than not.

After two months out, you decide you’ve earned yourself a full bath. You wander a little ways downstream from camp, past a bend thick with cottonwood trees. There, the river widens into a slow, clear blue pool. You tether Daisy to a low branch and then strip off your hat, vest, and shirt without a second thought. The binding comes next—long strips of linen you’ve worn tightly across your chest so many times. You unwind them slowly, breathing deeply. You leave the fabric folded neatly on a rock, kick off your boots, and wade into the water.

You duck under and let the cool liquid wash off all the sweat and dust from your skin. When you come back up, you start to brush your fingers through tangled hair. Winter's coming fast. Soon, the water will be too cold for baths. You should enjoy this one while you can. Glancing upward, you close your eyes and let the sun wash over your bare body.

“Oh…”

You gasp, sinking back into the water up to your chin. You turn around. The panic in your chest subsides when you find yourself looking at none other than Jeong Yunho. His eyes are wide with genuine surprise. You sigh and shake your head. Heat rushes into your neck and face, so hot it makes your ears itch.

“Damn,” you shout, breathless. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on somebody?”

“Sorry!” he yells back. “Thought I was alone...”

He hesitates, shirt half-tugged over his head. Your eyes snag on a slice of his skin, toned and muscular. Rolling your eyes to mask the tight coil in your stomach, you turn your back on him.

“Well, you comin’ in or not?” you ask.

As ladylike as possible, you splash water over your arms and shoulders. A few moments later, you hear him wading into the stream.

“Phew, it's so nice,” he says.

“Mhm,” you agree.

You turn toward him, arms crossing over your chest under the water on instinct. You study him for a moment—the way the light catches on the water droplets clinging to his collarbones, the way his damp hair curls up at the ends. He looks a little nervous, like he’s waiting for you to send him packing.

Silence falls. You both stare at each other for several minutes, arms moving through the water. Then, of course, because it’s Yunho, he scoops up a handful of water and flicks it at you. You gasp, half laughing, before you splash him back twice as hard. Within seconds, it’s a full-on battle. Water flies, and both of you laugh so hard your stomachs ache.

He lunges for you under water. You shriek, shoving against his chest. Your palms glide over his wet skin. With no friction, instead of stopping him, your touch slides upward and onto his shoulders. His hands curl around your hip bones, stopping you at arm’s length just a second before your chests ram together.

Your laughter fades quickly. The space between you seems to shrink. You’re close enough now to see the honeyed tint in his eyes. His long lashes clump together with water. He gives you every chance to pull away as he lifts his hand, so slowly, and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it over the river’s hum.

Your heart hammers in your chest. This doesn't feel real. It's fuzzy like a dream. You’ve spent years making sure no man ever sees you like this. Like a woman. Like…well, beautiful. And here you are, here he is, looking at you like you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips.

“Flattery’ll get you dunked, Dakota boy,” you mutter teasingly.

He laughs, the sound a quick exhale of breath. But he doesn’t move his hand. It stays, cupping your cheek. Your eyes flick down to his lips.

Fuck it.

You lean in first. Just enough. He meets you halfway. The kiss is gentle, just two mouths pressing against one another. No tongue, no saliva, nothing crazy. Just pressure and the slight tang of river water on his lips. His hand snakes around the back of your neck, thumb stroking once along your jaw. When you pull back, your cheeks are burning hot. You drop your head to avoid looking at him.

“Well,” you mumble, splashing a weak handful of water at his chest to cover the shaking in your voice, “that’s enough of that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He chuckles under his breath. You risk a peek at him; his cheeks are tinted pink, eyes sparkling. You consider kissing him again. Instead, you just catch your lip in your teeth and shove him away. As you paddle your way to the shore, you have a feeling that it’s about to get a lot harder to stay professional.

PART THREE

The wind has teeth now. It blows sharp and relentless as it sweeps down from the north. Nights come early, spreading a purple haze through the sky. You’ve pushed yourselves hard the last two weeks. You know you’re running out of time before winter sets in fully. You’re sitting at 680 horses with at least 20 more to go. Plus, if any of you want a bonus, you need a few more than that.

But the plains are thinning out, giving way to mountains dotted with evergreen trees. You’ll be passing the herd over to the army at Fort Garland in Colorado. You’re maybe a week’s travel away from the Fort.

One gray afternoon, Colton brings the party to a stop beside a shallow creek. The four of you sit your horses in a loose circle while he studies the map Hargrove gave you months ago, now soft and creased from constant use.

“I’d say we’re close enough to town that this’ll be our last corral,” he says, folding the map with a snap. “Army post is just over the ridge. Now, I don’t want civilians pokin’ around, so Riley and Yunho, you two ride ahead and scout it out. See if there’s a good holdin’ pasture outside town, somewhere we can keep the herd without payin’ for stables or drawin’ too much attention. Ross and I’ll bring the string up slow tomorrow.”

You nod, already turning Daisy in the direction of town. Yunho falls in beside you without a word, the easy rhythm you’ve found these past weeks making conversation unnecessary.

The two of you ride on until dusk, when the lights of the town start to flicker into view like little stars on the horizon. You find a sheltered hollow a mile or so out. It’s got good grass, a row of trees to break the wind, and a creek that hasn’t frozen over yet. No property markers, no claims staked. It’ll do.

You make up a small camp. You set up your bedroll first, close to the fire since everyone knows your secret now. Yunho rolls his out just beside yours, far closer than previous nights. You eat leftover jerky and some dried biscuits in silence, passing the last of the whiskey back and forth until the bottle’s empty.

The air is frigid, temperatures dropping fast once the sun dips for the night. When it’s time to turn in, you hesitate, glancing between the fire and the two bedrolls. Yunho lifts the edge of his quilt without comment.

With a smile, you slide in between his legs with your back to his chest. You can feel his body heat immediately. You lie against his torso, propped up against the great big tree behind you.

“Now, exactly how long have you been waitin' to cuddle up to me?” you tease, though your heart’s pounding.

“I’m just being practical,” he corrects. “There's no sense in freezing when we can share warmth.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest onto your back. For a while you just rest there, listening to the fire crackle and the wind gush through the trees. Then his hand finds yours under the quilt, fingers tracing the calluses and marks on your hand. He freezes on one, a jagged scar cutting right across your fingers. You feel sick for a moment, wondering if it disgusts him. Then, he hums quietly.

“What?” you ask.

“Rope burn?” he asks, fingertip gliding over the scar.

You fish out your hand from under the covers and turn it over so the firelight catches the pale pink line that runs across the base of your fingers. It’s an old wound, thick and permanent from years of lassos slipping at the wrong moment.

“I was twelve,” you say. “I still didn’t really know what I was doin’. I went after a huge chestnut mustang. That catch was too big for how small I was. He bolted, rope slipped. Damn near took my thumb off.”

His hand slides up next to yours, pinkies touching. You laugh. Same scar, same place, on his own hand. They’re identical, aside from finger length. You both stare for a long second.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be, “I guess that settles it, then.”

He raises his eyebrows and leans over your shoulder. You turn sideways to meet his gaze.

“Settles what?” he asks.

“Same scar, means we were meant to throw ropes together,” you explain, a grin tugging at your lips. “Or maybe just meant to be together, period.”

His answering smile is slow and warm. He laces his fingers through yours, scar touching scar.

“I believe that. Easy. But I didn’t need a scar to tell me.”

Your heart swells. You sink down into the quilt, nuzzling back against his chest. His arms snake around your waist, holding you firmly against him. The two of you just sit there. Listening. The wind howls like a restless spirit outside your little camp. Yunho’s body is a furnace against your back, his arms heavy across your stomach. You can feel every breath he takes, slow and steady. You shift your hips, just a little, without even really meaning to. He goes rigid behind you.

“If you keep moving like that…” he murmurs, breath hot against the shell of your ear, “you might get me into trouble, cowgirl.”

A shiver snakes down your spine that is definitively not from the cold. You spin in his grasp and turn onto your knees so you can look at him. You place one hand on each of his thighs, feeling his muscles shift under your touch. You’re face-to-face now, noses brushing. His eyes are black in the firelight, pupils blown wide.

“Well, lucky for you, I am trouble,” you whisper.

He moves immediately. His hand attaches to your jaw, tugging you forward. With long, slender fingers stretching across your face, he brushes his nose against yours. You inhale sharply. Your eyes flutter closed. Heart pounding in your chest, you wait. His lips ghost against yours softly. Then, pressure follows.

He kisses you sweetly at first, just lips melding together. But you want more. You need more. Your hands slide up his thighs, onto his chest, and then into the soft hair at the nape of his neck under his cowboy hat. His head turns to the side so he can reach you deeper. He gets hungrier, hotter, teeth scraping your bottom lip before his tongue slides into your mouth. You kiss him back hard. Your gut is swimming, churning as pressure builds lower and lower.

He rolls you onto your back in one smooth motion. Desperate for some friction, you open your legs. He settles between your thighs. Your fingers bump against the brim of his hat, tugging at the roots of his hair until he groans into your mouth.

Cold air nips at your exposed skin when his fingers lift the hem of your shirt. But the warmth of his palms on your body heats you right back up. He works open the buttons on your shirt, one at a time.

He kisses the corner of your mouth and then down onto your neck. These are open-mouthed, sloppy kisses. You turn your head to give him your neck freely. He licks over your pulse point, drawing a soft moan from your lips. You arch into his touch and gasp when his tongue finds the tender meat of your shoulder. He bites down hard, sucking at your skin.

It’ll be a bruise in the morning, you already know it. You don’t care. You want it. You want every mark he plans to leave on you.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” he growls against your throat, teeth grazing the corner of your jaw. “Thinking about you. Just like this.”

You laugh, breathlessly, and reach for his shirt.

“Then stop talkin’ and start doin’, cowboy.”

He pulls back just far enough to grin, wicked and beautiful. You bite your lip and yank at a button on his shirt. He sits back on his knees and finishes the job for you. You sigh, reaching up to run your hands down his bare torso. His skin is blazing hot. You spread your fingers greedily, smoothing over his perfect honeyed skin.

Shamelessly, you let your fingertip hook onto the belt of his pants, dipping just below the waistband. He inhales sharply, one hand enclosing over yours. Your eyes flick up. You giggle coquettishly when he shakes his head. Despite his restraint, his eyes darken.

He leans back down, gaze never leaving yours, and finishes what he started with your shirt. You slide your arms from the sleeves. The cold air raises goosebumps all over. You feel exposed in a way you never have before. But it’s not a bad feeling. It’s nice.

Yunho’s fingers find the piece of tucked linen securing the binding on your chest. He pauses, thumb brushing against the worn cloth. His eyes find yours.

“Can I take this off?” he asks. “Is that alright?”

You nod, swallowing hard.

“I’ve been wearin’ it for years. It’ll be nice to breathe free.”

He smiles softly and starts unwinding the long strips. He does it with care. Each layer he pulls loose reveals another piece of your skin. The last of the binding falls away. Your breasts ache slightly, happy to be freed from confinement. The cold breeze makes your nipples tighten almost instantly. Yunho’s breath hitches. He studies you, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body. His fingertip lightly traces along the indentations on your sides from the tightly-wrapped fabric.

“Does it hurt?” he questions.

“Sometimes. But it ain’t nothin’ I can’t handle.”

He bends over, softly pressing kisses to some of the grooves in your skin. When he comes up back, you shift nervously under his stare. You reach for your hair to have something to cover you only to realize that it’s still braided down your back. As if reading your mind, he reaches up with one hand and tugs the leather strap free. He threads his fingers through the strands, patiently loosening the plait until your hair spills wild across your shoulders. He grins sweetly.

“Better,” he whispers. “Just you now. As you are.”

You coo, breath taken away, and shrink under his soft gaze. His knuckle finds the underside of your chin. He tilts your face up, kissing you deeply. As his lips move on yours, you forget your worries. Your arms wind around his neck. One of his hands slides onto your back, the other bracing himself on the bedroll. He kisses you a few more times before pulling back. You open your eyes to see him grinning playfully.

“What?” you ask. “I don’t like that face you’re makin’.”

He just bites his lips and pushes himself to a stand. You watch, heartbeat pulsing in your head, as Yunho disappears behind his horse. When he comes back into view, he has a coil of extra rope wound around his hand. Your pulse spikes. You quirk an eyebrow.

“And what on earth is that for?” you ask.

He smirks. Standing above you, he looks like a giant. He's so damn tall…

“Hands above your head,” he says, gentle but commanding.

You hesitate for a moment, eyeing him up and down. But, then, you obey and cross your wrists above your head. The rope is slightly rough against your wrists as he secures it, but he ties it double-looped so there’s not very much room for chafing. He winds the rest of it around the tree above your head. You gasp when he yanks it tight. With your mouth agape, you gawk at him. He shrugs and chuckles breathlessly.

“Sorry. Gotta make sure it’s tight.”

You scoff, but your whole body is swimming with adrenaline. You’ve spent the night with a man once or twice before. But never like this. You’ve heard of things like this from the show girls at the saloons you duck in and out of when you come across towns. You didn't realize people actually do it.

You tug once on the rope, testing it. It holds. A thrill pulses between your legs. You can feel your core swelling, prepping for what it hopes is to come.

When he’s finished, he sits on his heels in front of you and stares. Absolutely no shame in his demeanor, whatsoever. You feel suddenly embarrassed—breasts bare, trousers pushed down to your hips, wrists bound. He whistles, low and slow.

“Pretty as a picture,” he murmurs.

He pulls your old faded red bandana from his pocket and folds it slowly. Holding it up in front of your eyes, he gives you an idea of what his plans are. You laugh but close your eyes and lift your head. He ties it snugly over your face. Darkness swallows everything but the sound of his breathing and the crackle of the fire.

“This okay?”

“Mhm.”

Then his hands are on you again, slow and deliberate. His touch trails down your sternum, circling one nipple and then the other. Your lips part, back arching into the sensation. His mouth follows soon after, hot and wet, sucking marks into the soft skin of your breasts. His other hand slips lower to unfasten your trousers. You cooperate the best you can as he slides them from your legs. While the rest of your clothes are men’s, you still wear women’s drawers underneath your trousers. Your hips shift up unintentionally when his hand smooths over your aching heat.

“Oh, hell…” he mumbles. “You’re drenched through, baby. I've barely touched you. How are you already so wet? You want me that bad, huh?”

You snort.

“Don't flatter yourself too much, cowboy," you quip. "I don’t get a lotta attention down there. On account of me pretendin’ to be a man and all.”

He snickers and slides two fingers under the waistband of your drawers. He lifts your hips so he can slide them off, leaving you completely bare before him. Part of you is terrified, but the other half is desperate to see his expression. You shiver when his hands brush along the insides of your thighs and push your legs further apart.

He drags a single finger along your folds, and you gasp at the surprise. He groans low in his throat—a raw, hungry sound that lights you up. The same finger slips back down, circling once on your clit before it dips into you. He removes it and reinserts, curling upward just right against that spot. Your hips buck up involuntarily. Your mouth falls open.

The next time he slides in, he’s added a finger. He slowly pulses in and out of you. His thumb is positioned perfectly so that it knocks against your swollen clit whenever he drives into you. The world narrows around you. Every nerve is on high alert, senses amplified because of the blindfold. You swear you can almost feel the callouses on his fingers as they pump in and out of you, over and over.

He learns you quickly, figures out what your body responds to.

You moan, shuddering when you feel the coldness of his spit on your heat. The slick between your thighs starts to drip down your legs. You clench greedily around him as he adds a third finger. He stretches you open, gently at first, and then deeper, harder.

Your thighs start to tremble. Heat builds low in your stomach, coming in waves. His thumb finds your clit again, swollen and aching. He circles it carefully. Moans spill from your lips, and your back arches. Pulling against the rope, your hands beg to be freed. All you can focus on is the aching sensation intensifying in your lower gut and the obscene gushing sound proving just how soaked you are.

He slows when you're nearing the edge, fingers stilling inside you. You whine and whimper in protest. The desperation in your tone surprises even you. The denial is torture. Every muscle in your body is like a coiled spring just waiting to burst. You feel him shift above you, the heat of his body fading just enough to make you strain against the bonds, as if you could reach for him.

“Not yet,” he says sternly.

You gasp when you feel his breath ghosting over your folds. Then, the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue from your entrance to your clit. The first lick rips a broken moan from you. The second one has your thighs trying to clamp around his head. But his big hands pin them wide open. He groans into you like a starving man, the vibration making you jerk against the binds.

“Yunho…” you whine.

He doesn’t answer. He devours you. Long, filthy stripes of his tongue, and then tight circles around your clit until your hips are bucking helplessly. He sucks the swollen bud between his lips. You feel the coil in your belly snap back into place, twice as tight as before. Two fingers slide back inside you, curling hard. His mouth never stops. The sounds that escape your mouth seem vulgar in the otherwise calm night. You moan his name again, and he goes harder. You shatter, tugging so hard on the rope your wrists burn. He doesn’t stop, licking you through every pulse until you’re shaking.

Obviously satisfied, he pulls away. One gentle kiss to your sternum in between your breasts. Then, his hands are at your wrists, untying the rope. The bandana comes off last. You blink against the light. His shadow comes into view. His face is red, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, mouth swollen and glistening with your slick.

You don’t even hesitate. The second your hands are free you shove at his chest. He lets you, surprised laughter rumbling out of him as he topples onto his back on the quilts. You’re on top of him before he can catch his breath. With desperate fingers, you pull the belt away, trousers and drawers down. He reaches for his cowboy hat, but you catch his wrist.

“No. Leave it on,” you say, the need so painfully obvious in your tone.

He chuckles quietly but obeys. He lays back with his head propped against the rolled up blanket serving as his pillow. He seems calm, probably not expecting you to get to work right away.

You relish in his shock when you drag your still-dripping core along the long, hard length of him. He hisses, hands flying to your waist. His head falls back, throat exposed, that gorgeous neck stretched, veins and all.

With your bottom lip between your teeth, you sink down in one slow, greedy slide. The stretch is perfect, just a little more than his fingers. You both moan loud, almost noisy enough to spook your horses. You brace your palms on his chest and slowly tip your hips back. Bring them forward, then push back.

His hands are everywhere—sliding up your sides, slipping over your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples, then lower again to grip your waist. He guides you without forcing you. You roll your hips slow at first, savoring the drag, the way his cock hits so deep every time you sink back down. His eyes are locked where you’re joined, lips parted, breath hitching every time you clench around him. Your eyes squeeze shut to savor the sensations.

“You ride it like a champ,” he says, laughing. “You okay?”

He reaches up, tucking a strand of fallen hair from your cheek. The tenderness feels so out of place considering the position you’re both in. You nod, leaning forward. He surges up to meet you. His mouth latches onto yours.

Now your knees are splayed on either side of his hips, him sitting between your thighs. You grind down harder. Your tongues tangle, and he slips a hand between you. He finds your clit again. Your fingernails dig into him, one on his shoulder, the other on his neck. Something hits so perfectly that you whimper, and your lips slip from his. Wincing, you brace yourself to keep going. His grip on your hips forces you to slow.

“Come on, cowgirl,” he pants against your mouth. “One more for me. I wanna feel it this time. But I want you to tell me your name first. Your real one.”

You falter for a second, surprised by the request. Leaning back slightly, you catch his gaze. He looks fucked out already. But something in those soft eyes... He wants to know you. Completely. You press your mouth next to his ear, whispering the name you hadn't spoken in almost fifteen years.

He gets right back to work. One of his hands slides up your spine, holding you up. The other rests on your thigh to keep you in place. You feel him start to push up inside you with his own weight.

That’s all it takes.

You slam down once, twice, and then the second orgasm blindsides you. And shit, is it so much better than the first. You clench hard around his cock. Burying your face into his shoulder, you hold on for life as the waves crest over you again and again. He follows right after, hips jerking up, spilling hot inside you with your name broken on his tongue.

You ride it out together and then just sit, intertwined. He wraps his arms around your torso, holding on tightly. He presses lazy kisses to your neck, shoulder, anywhere he can reach. You keep your eyes closed to savor the embrace.

Eventually, he tips you sideways, pulling the quilt up and over your bodies. He moves to slide out, but you stop him.

“You can stay. I don’t mind,” you say quietly, eyes still closed.

He chuckles softly, kisses your forehead, and pulls you into his chest. Before you slip under, you think you catch him whispering your name, quiet as a mouse.

Morning comes in pastel streaks of light. The wind is bitter. You wake first, pulling the covers up to your chin. You don’t want to leave your lover’s embrace. Ever again. So you keep still, entangled in his arms.

When Yunho eventually stirs behind you, you both agree it’s time to get up and at least rebuild the fire. As he puts the coffee on, you stifle a giggle. His skin, and you imagine yours, too, bears the evidence of your night together. Faint red lines spread across his neck where your nails scratched him. A bruise is blooming on his shoulder from where your mouth lingered.

“What?” he asks.

He looks at you over his shoulder like a deer in headlights. Fuck, he’s gorgeous this morning. You just bite your lip and shake your head.

“Oh, nothin’.”

You eat some of the leftover jerky for breakfast, have your coffee, and wait for Colton and Ross to find the smoke from your campfire. You’d stoked it with pine needles to give it a bluish tint so the ropers would know where to find you.

They finally arrive around midday.

The second Colton’s eyes land on you, you realize he knows. You haven’t looked at your reflection today, but you imagine you look something like a wild animal—hair wild, lips swollen, hickeys all over your neck. His eyebrows nearly jump into his hat. He cackles sharply, shaking his head in disapproval.

“Well, hell,” he says, dismounting. “Looks like the two of y’all had a real productive scoutin’ trip.”

You glance at Yunho whose face is redder than a strawberry. He shrugs sheepishly, eyes flicking to you.

“Productive ain’t the word I’d use,” Ross snorts. Then, he eyes the rumpled bedrolls laid suspiciously close together.

“What?” Yunho responds, throwing his hands up at his partner. “It was real cold last night. We had to do something to stay warm.”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you lift your chin and smirk.

“What’s the matter, Colton? Jealous I ain’t ever made a move on you all these years.”

“Ha! Kid, I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper and twice as mean. I wouldn’t never take you on.”

You tip your hat to him, grinning wide. You swing up onto Daisy.

“We got work to do, huh?" you say. "Let’s get that bonus cash, boys.”

Without another word, you kick Daisy forward with Yunho at your heels. You leave Colton and Ross in the dust. The town glimmers in the distance, the herd’s almost complete, and winter’s closing in fast.

But for the first time in your life, the wide-open plains don’t feel quite so lonely.

EPILOGUE

The sun hangs low over the dusty street. It’s been three years since that beautiful ride with the Dakota boys. You’d wound up with almost 800 horses by the deadline. You’d never experienced a payday so wonderful in your life. Not to mention all the bonuses that were awarded for the quality studs you’d passed on.

Fortunately, you’d also found a stud to keep all to yourself.

Word spread fast about the pair of you: a steady-handed cowboy and a mysterious expert roper. In three years’ time, you’ve established yourselves as quite the coveted service. With all that extra money you earned, you offered to buy Red Rock Horse & Cattle Company. Old man Hargrove couldn’t wait to hand it off. You knew he’d been wanting to retire for years. At seventy years old, he'd earned it, after all.

Nowadays, contracts pile up on the wooden desk like dust: ranchers needing hands for a drive, rodeos recruiting retirees or young folk with special talents, wealthy businessmen looking for escorts through rough territory. Letters and telegrams from all over the country trickle in, more and more every day.

Actually, you've had to become very picky. With so much business flooding in, it’s hard sometimes to find the time to personally take on contracts. But, you suppose, that’s part of the benefit of owning the company—you get to hog all the fun requests to yourself.

You lean back in your chair, boots propped on the table as you sort through the latest stack. Yunho sits across from you. You watch him for a moment, studying the way his back muscles shift as he cleans his rifle. His eyes dart back and forth between the gun in his lap and the contracts lying open in front of him.

“Look at this one,” you say, waving a crumpled letter. “Some guy in Texas wants us to round up a herd of wild mustangs. Says they’ll pay triple if we bring ‘em in broken, too. He says, quote, ‘nobody else seems to be able to handle the wild ones like y’all do.'”

Yunho glances up, dark eyes sparkling in the lantern light. He sets down the rifle and takes the paper from you. He reads it over, eyebrows knitting in concentration.

“Hm…tempting,” he replies. “But this one’s better.”

He slides a pristine telegram across the table. This one is from a wealthy cattle baron in the Dakotas.

"Wide open land, prime grazing territory,” Yunho explains as you read. “Says he needs experienced hands to lead the drive north before winter hits. Room for two at the front, and a bonus if we get there ahead of schedule."

It’s solid work, honest and easy. It feels similar to the job that brought you together in the first place. Unlike some of the other offers that are flashy, full of risks and lots of reward at the end, this one feels steady. It would be slow and full of open plain. That big, bright blue sky that you love so dearly. Besides, you’d always wanted to see the Dakotas.

"Alright, I like it," you agree, folding the telegram neatly. "To the Dakotas, it is. I’ve always wondered what it’s like up there.”

“I can guarantee there will be many nights perfect for stargazing," he replies with a sweet smile.

You stand and stretch out the kinks from a day spent cramped in the office. Yunho follows you outside, locking up behind him. Your horses wait patiently for you at the post. Both of you reach for your hats at the same time.

As you press it onto the top of your head, you smile. The horsehair tassel brushes against your finger. You each have one. Yours is braided with a strand of hair from his horse and one from his head; his is the same but with locks from your hair and Daisy’s mane. You created them as a quiet promise that wherever the trail leads, you’ll ride it together.

You reach for the reins, but his fingers clamp onto your arm. You glance at him. He steps closer, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb traces your jaw. With a grin, you lean in to meet him halfway. He kisses you slowly, softly, familiarly. He tastes of coffee. You inhale it greedily. His free hand settles on your waist, pulling you flush against him. When you break apart, your foreheads stay pressed together.

“Best thing I ever did was ride with you,” he murmurs against your lips.

You can’t help the wicked grin that spreads across your face. Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, you giggle.

“Best thing I ever did was ride you.”

By the time he catches up to what you’ve said, you’re already climbing onto Daisy’s back. He laughs, deep and genuine. You join in. Nothing's better than teasing your big puppy dog. You nudge Daisy’s sides to urge her forward. She takes off into a sprint, stirring up a cloud of dust behind her. You don’t look back for Yunho; you don’t need to. You know he’s right on your tail, just like always.

The trail stretches ahead of you, endless and exciting and full of whatever comes next. Fresh experiences, new joys, more nights tangled together under the stars.

And damn if this isn’t the best ride of your life.

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[milatiny-xx]

Give your westeez series😩

Hope to see a fantasy one in and future👀

👀 👀 um i love this idea

[milatiny-xx]

bandit in brown | c.jh

⊹₊⟡⋆ Westeez Series | Part 7 of 8 ⊹₊⟡⋆

pairing: bandit!jongho x fem!reader summary: You’re just a bargaining chip, just business. At least, that's what he tells himself. tags: cowboy/wild west AU, reader is kidnapped, reader is also a bit of a spoiled brat lol, bank robbery; includes discussion of guns, blood, injuries, death and dead bodies, chronic illness (jongho's brother in the fic); jongo also saves reader from being assaulted (nothing explicit really happens here! one of the other bandits just tries to sneak a peek at her boobies but jongho says yeahhh not my girl) wc: 10.3k a/n: this was SO FUN to write. jongho is such a wrecker for me he's so sassy and BIG 😩 i was not expecting this to be 10k words haha oopsie. enjoy lovelies!!!

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

PROLOGUE

Everyone in the county knows about you.

They all know your name. If not the first part, certainly your surname. It would be concerning if they didn’t, considering it’s plastered on the top of every building in town. Harrington & Sons Dry Goods & Groceries, Harrington Post Office, Harrington Bank & Trust.

You are the only daughter of Elias Harrington, cattle king and town bigwig who owns more land than the Governor and more money than any king you’ve ever heard of. Your childhood was trimmed with lace and silk. Your days consisted of lessons with a French governess, riding around in a pony cart painted snow-white, and learning how to dance at balls.

On your sixteenth birthday, your father had a grand piano shipped all the way from Italy. On your eighteenth, he bought you a diamond necklace that had once rested on the chest of an Austrian duchess. You get whatever you want, when you want. And, sometimes, you don’t even have to ask for it.

Folk speak well of you and your family. Well, mostly. Some people don’t care too much for your father, but that has little to do with you. Everyone just seems to adore you. Sweet Miss Harrington, the jewel of this little town, so refined and beautiful and young.

You’re sure it helps that your mother dresses you like a porcelain doll and parades you through teas and various other social engagements. She whispers in your ear all the while, telling about which railroad heir or oil baron would make the best match. You know the other young ladies like to turn their nose up at you out of jealousy. They all want the money, the security, the things you have. You know that. And it only makes it all the sweeter.

The truth is that you love your little life. While so many girls poke fun at and complain about needing to get married and have babies and decorate their homes, it stokes the fire in your gut. The horrible truth about it all is that you love being watched. You like knowing people are jealous of you, that they want to be you. It’s such a gorgeous feeling.

So, you smile at them all with your white teeth and practiced sweetness. Every curtsey, every flirtation, every flick of your lace fan from China is executed to perfection.

Being untouchable is your speciality.  You were born to be the diamond in every room your heeled shoes deign to appear.

At the end of the day, you know with full confidence that you were born to be looked at.

PART ONE

It’s no surprise when Luther, your father’s right-hand man, stops by the house to ask you to drop off some money at the bank on your shopping trip in town. Since you frequent the row of Harrington-owned businesses that offer the expensive and beautiful bits and bobs you like so very much, it’s no trouble to step into the bank on the next street over.

The wind is brisk this afternoon. It almost runs away with the brand new wide-brimmed hat that you’d bought a couple of weeks ago. That, of course, would have been a terrible shame. The pink ribbon fastened around the crown of the accessory matches perfectly with the pale rose-colored dress that you’re wearing. It has gorgeous lace trimmings that complement your white gloves and shoes quite nicely.

With your pink silk money purse secured around your wrist, you step into Harrington Bank & Trust. The familiar smell of burning wax and old paper money waft into your nose. You smile, pasting the same polite grin on your face that you always don in public places. You approach the marble counter, outfit fairly pristine despite the elements outside.

“Good afternoon, Jack!” you say pleasantly, greeting the familiar bank clerk who always takes care of your father’s finances.

“Good afternoon, Miss Harrington!” the older man greets you with a genuine smile. “A pleasure to see you today. What may I do for you, miss?”

“I just need to make a deposit for Daddy.”

You reach into the change purse and pull out the hefty stack of bills that Luther had handed over to you at the house. You count along in your head as Jack thumbs through the bills. If your math is correct, you come up with twenty thousand dollars.

Lovely. You can’t wait to see what shiny new toy Daddy will buy you with all of this cash. You watch on with a satisfied smile, dreaming of all the fancy things you could buy with your allowance, when the large wooden doors to the bank burst open so hard the glass shatters in one of the frames.

You jump. Your hand finds its way to your heart, now pounding from being so startled. A gasp slips from your lips when you turn toward the door to see five men. Dust swirls off their coats like steam from a stew. The top half of their faces are covered by the shadow of a cowboy hat, the bottom half shielded by bandanas of various colors. And in each of their hands, a revolver.

The first shot bursts through the chandelier, crystal exploding like ice and snow across the lobby. Tiny shards of glass careen down toward the bank’s patrons. Screams echo off the vaulted ceiling. Silence follows for a moment, everything going eerily still.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” the front man steps forward. His black bandana matches his cowboy hat perfectly. “We’re here to make a withdrawal. So, if y’all just cooperate, it’ll be much easier for everyone.”

Another gunshot. You have no idea which one of them fired it this time. All you know is that your hands are shaking now. Before you can even process what’s happening, they move in.

People drop to their knees. They duck behind structures. They cover their heads if they can. The cowboys fire shots left and right. The bank is filled with the shrill sound of breaking glass, women screaming, bullets ricocheting against the marble floors and walls. Some people try to run out. One man is shot in the back as he flees. Blood spurts from his body where the bullet enters. It splatters across his nice suit and the doorframe through which he was running. On the other side of the room, a woman wails pathetically as one of the cowboys holds a gun to the back of her head and shouts at her to empty her purse.

While everyone else seems to be thrown into mass hysteria, you find yourself frozen. It feels as if your feet have been nailed to the floor where you stand. Your heart is pounding so loud, you can hear its muffled beat in your ears. You’ve been trained to do many things, to adapt in many difficult social situations. You know how to pour tea correctly, how to dance a waltz with perfect lines, how to embroider a lovely little pair of gloves. But not this. You haven’t been trained to deal with anything like this.

You shriek when a hand clamps down on your shoulder. Relief washes over you when you glance back to see Jack. He motions for you to follow him. Despite his old age, he’s able to crouch down low enough to sneak behind the counter. On the verge of tears, you follow him. Your eyes flicker all over the room, trying to understand everything that you’re seeing and scanning for enemies.

Behind the tall counter, Jack gestures toward the empty space where his stool normally sits. He ushers you into the spot. You curl up, cramped and uncomfortable, but too terrified to argue. He scoots the stool back in as far as it will go. It bangs against your shins. You bite down your tongue to stay silent. Jack’s eyes are wide with fear, but his hands don’t shake when he holds them out, ordering you to stay put. You nod and squeeze your eyes shut amongst the crashing and screaming and shouting.

When you open your eyes again, Jack is gone. You have no idea where he went. Before you can gather the courage to get up and look for him, something comes tumbling over the top of the counter. You clamp a hand over your mouth as the vibrations rock against you. A body slides over the edge. It bounces against the stool and lands directly in front of you.

The head is turned toward you, blood spilling from the eyes and nose. A guttural noise escapes you as you look upon the familiar face. It’s Jack. You’re sure of it.

You can feel your chest rising and falling more quickly now. Tears slip from your eyes, cascading in warm trails down your cheeks. You feel sick. You’re going to be sick. You can’t stay here. You have to get out. You need out now.

Without really thinking it through, you shove the stool out of the way. It teeters and almost crashes over but regains its balance just in time. You burst from under the counter. Still crouched, you grab fistfuls of your petticoats to get them out of the way as you try to run toward the door in the back.

Your eyes snag on something in your path. With a gulp, you lunge for it, scooping up an ivory-handled pistol that had been knocked away from someone in the skirmish. Your heart seems to slow just a tick as you look up, gun in hand for extra safety, and see that you’re only three or four steps from the exit. Gathering your courage once again, you raise up enough to take a step.

“Drop it, honey.”

You freeze, breath caught in your throat. Slowly, carefully, you angle your head over your shoulder. Your lip quivers. One of the cowboys, the one with the black bandana, stands above you. His gun is in his hand, the barrel is pointed directly at you.

You glance down at the gun, brain stumbling around in circles. You could try to shoot him. But you’ve never shot a gun before. You could throw it at him and run. But with your petticoats…how far would you get? Besides, wouldn’t one of his buddies shoot you instead?

The crisp sound of the gun cocking interrupts your thoughts. Trembling, you raise your gaze to his.

“I really wouldn’t try anythin’ if I was you,” he says, voice rough and deep.

“Holster it, Buck,” another voice sounds.

Your eyes slide over, locking on another one of the bandits. This one is dressed exclusively in brown—his pants, button-up, jacket, boots, hat, and even bandana have all been dyed various shades of brown. The bandit in black scoffs, tossing his head to look at the one in brown.

“And just who the hell do you think you are?” the bandit in black spits. “Tryna tell me what to do.”

“I ain’t tryna tell you what to do. I’m just sayin’,” his eyes shift over, meeting yours, “not this one.”

The bandit in black stares at him for a moment.

“Well, maybe I should just shoot your ass, instead, then. Huh?”

They start to bicker, something that seems to come rather naturally to the pair. With them both distracted, you take this as your opportunity. Forgetting completely about the gun, you stand up and bolt for the door.

You only make it a couple of steps before someone’s arm is around your waist. You grunt against the impact. Your body immediately snaps into survival mode, thrashing and struggling against whoever’s got you. A terrible burst of hot air hits your neck and ear. A laugh, or something like it.

“Damn, little girl!” It’s the bandit in black. “Well, you just got yourself killed, you know. What a shame, to waste such a pretty face.”

He drags the barrel of the gun along your cheek. You whimper, squeezing your eyes shut and praying for escape. You feel the tip of the gun pressed against your temple. The ring of metal is still hot from the last shot he’d taken. Heaving, you clench your teeth and prepare for the end.

“No!” the bandit in brown’s voice sounds closer now.

You open your eyes to see him standing to your left. His gloved hand is wrapped around the bandit in black’s wrist attached to the hand holding the gun to your head.

“Oh, you’re done, dickhead. Imma kill you, you hear me?” the bandit in black hisses, breath still ghosting over the shell of your ear.

The bandit in brown gestures toward you with his free hand. 

“Her clothes, Buck,” the bandit in brown says.

“Her what?”

“Her clothes,” he repeats. “They’re fine. Lace, silk, gold jewelry. She’s rich, Buck. By the look of things, I’d reckon filthy rich.”

The bandit in black is silent for a moment before asking, “What’s your point, Jongho?”

The bandit in brown glances over at you again, eyes calculating and sharp. You wince under his gaze. You feel like some sort of cow being sized up at an auction.

“I bet mommy and daddy would pay a fine penny to get their ‘lil girl back. A helluva lot more than we’d get just pullin’ bank jobs.”

His vision drops down to the deposit slip still clutched in your white-gloved hand. He steps forward once, and you move back. He steps forward again but this time catches hold of your arm. You strain against him, but he’s able to easily pry the deposit slip from your fingertips. You gulp as he looks at the number on it. His eyebrows raise, eyes going wide. He stares at you for a moment and then hands the scrap of paper off to his compatriot.

When the bandit in black sees it, he whoops loudly. You flinch at the noise. The bandit in black looks at you, and you can tell he’s grinning beneath his bandana. You feel tears stinging your eyes, but you hold them back.

“Change of plans, boys,” he shouts, voice booming across the bank. “Looks like we’re takin’ a princess back with us.”

You shake your head vigorously, stumbling backward over papers and limbs and god knows what else strewn about the floor. You trip on something, crashing down onto your bum with a grimace. Before you can move past the shock enough to stand, an arm locks around your waist like an iron brand. The world tilts. Your hair falls past your ears and into your eyes.

You kick, claw, scream as you try to get away. Every carefully practiced ladylike lesson burns away in terror and fury. Suddenly, the world is right-side up again. Blood rushes into your head, clouding your vision black for a moment.

When you reorient yourself, you find your skirt ripped, petticoats pushed up past your stockings, legs spread wide on the back of a horse. Your bum is securely resting in the saddle and something solid is behind you. You wiggle and realize quickly that your hands have been tied to the pommel. Panic sets in, you jerk against the bonds. Your silk gloves bunch up near the unkempt rope, and you’re thankful the fabric is there to protect you at least a little from rope burn. But whoever tied you here did it too tightly. You can’t get free. Maybe you can slide your hands up the pommel. You try it, back slamming against whoever rides behind you. He grunts at the impact.

One of his hands wraps around your jaw, pulling your head back. His thumb presses into your neck just hard enough to still you.

“Quit fightin’,” he says quietly in your ear. “You won’t get loose. You’re tied to a rigging ring, too. Keeps you in place better.”

You peer down to see that the rope has been threaded through one of the rings on the saddle. You sigh, dropping your head and squeezing your eyes shut. Maybe if you wish hard enough, you’ll wake up from this nightmare.

But when you open them, you’re still there. You twist just enough in the saddle to see your keeper—the bandit in brown. You meet his eyes for a fleeting moment. Despite the hard exterior, there’s something soft in them, something intriguing.

But the horse lunges forward, taking off into a sprint at the command of its rider. Your body jerks forward. You knock back and forth against the leather saddle and the hard torso of the stranger behind you. One of his arms snakes around your waist. You gasp. It feels claustrophobic, this new restriction. His support keeps you steadier as the horse runs, but you hate the way it feels too tight on your body.

You close your eyes again, praying for sleep or death or something to take you away from this.

Hours later—you have no idea how many—the bandit in brown unties your bonds and hoists you down from the horse. You have a fleeting idea to run for it, but his grip on your bicep is far too strong. You won’t even be able to tear yourself away from him let alone escape.

Your eyes slide side to side as you take in your surroundings. They’ve brought you to a crumbling ranch house. It seems to be old, and parts of it are crumbling or broken. It’s isolated; there’s no other buildings or structures anywhere that you can see. The summer sun blanches the plains, hot and unforgiving.

With some help, the cowboys force you into a rickety wooden chair. They yank your arms behind you, tying you to the legs. You whimper at the pull on your muscles. One of them removes your gloves. The rope bites into your skin if you struggle, burning so badly that you give up in a matter of seconds.

The bandit in black approaches, bandana lowered to reveal a set of grimy, yellow-flecked teeth. Your stomach gurgles in protest as he gets closer. When he reaches out to touch your face, you panic. Before you know it, your teeth are sinking into his hand.

You have no idea what's gotten into you. You’ve never…bitten anyone before.

He yelps, wrenching his hand back. His eyes are wide with rage when he looks back at you. He draws his pistol and cocks it, pointing at you once again. You stare back at him, shaking your head. You feel like your eyes are about to pop out of the sockets. You can assure him that you’re equally as surprised at what you just did.

“Why you ‘lil bit-”

“Buck,” there’s that voice again, the bandit in brown. “We need her alive. Parents ain’t gonna pay ransom for a dead daughter.”

The bandit in black—Buck, apparently—swipes his tongue across his teeth. He clenches his jaw, tilts his head. His eyes swipe up and down your body one time. Then, he clicks his tongue and spins his gun. You release a sigh of relief.

You glance over at the bandit in brown, just long enough to catch his eye before the butt of Buck’s pistol slams into the side of your head. Pain floods into you for a moment before the darkness swallows you whole.

PART TWO

You come to with a throbbing skull. You blink and try to straighten. Your neck is so sore. Based on the moonlight striping across the floorboards, you’ve been out for quite a while. Your eyes scan the room.

At first, you think you're alone. But when your gaze sweeps all the way to the right, you see him. One of the bandits is seated on an upturned bucket. You can hear talking and laughing coming from outside. Those must be the others. Through the slats in the wood, you can just barely make out a campfire in front of the house.

“Sleep well?”

Your head jerks toward the bandit inside the room with you. His hat and bandana have been removed, so you have no way of telling which cowboy this one is. He’s cleaning his gun with slow, almost hypnotic movements.

You try to reply, to spew a string of curses at him, but you can’t. While you were knocked out, they gagged you with the bandana. You decide to go for it anyway, but your voice just comes out as a muddled snarl. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a smirk.

He sets his gun down and crosses the room in three strides. You lean backward in the chair, wary of him getting close to you. He crouches beside the chair. Surprisingly gentle, he removes the gag from your mouth. You don’t waste a second. You immediately spit down at his boots.

To your shock, he laughs. The sound is bright and warm, almost like a giggle. You clench your teeth but stare straight forward. You refuse to look at him.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” he says. “I ‘spose that’s to be expected. You were out for two days.”

Two days?? Panic rises in your chest once more. You’ve been knocked out for two days? You shudder thinking of what’s happened to you since. What could they have done to you? Your clothes seem to be in place, no new bruises or cuts on your skin that you can see. You can hardly believe it, but you appear to be untouched. Nevertheless, rage courses through your veins like oil lighting up a fire.

“What do you want with me?” you reply in a hoarse voice.

“Oh, we don’t want nothin’ with you, princess. We just want a ‘lil bit of your money, is all.”

“You’re despicable.”

He shrugs.

“If that’s how you feel,” he responds nonchalantly.

He rises and walks into the corner. You remain facing straight, ignoring the urge to look over and see what he’s up to. A few moments later, he returns. You watch him crouch next to you from the corner of your eye. He holds something up, waving it in front of your face.

“Thirsty?”

You jerk your head in the other direction. He chuckles and shrugs again.

“Suit yourself, princess.”

Giving in to temptation, your eyes slide over, watching him as he takes a sip from a water canteen. He tilts the can, sliding the spout between plump lips. Your eyes trace down his jaw, onto his throat. You can’t help but stare at his Adam’s apple as he gulps down fresh, cool water. A small stream of liquid escapes out of the side of his mouth. You trace it as it crawls down his cheek, onto his throat, down past the unbuttoned portion of his shirt.

Brown…his shirt is brown. This is the bandit in brown.

When you realize he’s stopped moving, your eyes flick up to meet his. You gasp, embarrassed, and look away immediately. His tongue darts out to lick a bead of water from his lip. Then, his mouth curls into a smirk.

“Sure you don’t want any?” he asks again, holding the canteen toward you.

You steel your jaw and stare straight ahead. After a few moments of silence, he just nods and replaces the cap.

After that, he goes back to cleaning his gun. Your tongue sticks to cracked lips, and your thirst is suddenly undeniable. All you can focus on is how thirsty you are and how dry everything feels.

The next couple of days bleed together, the summer heat melting the minutes into one continuous moment. When you’re not struggling through hours of fitful sleep, you’re trying to wrench your wrists from the rope. At first, your attempts are subtle. You shift in your seat or pretend to be stretching. But when you make no progress and garner absolutely no attention whatsoever from the bandit in brown, you get angry. You begin pulling on the robe and twisting your arms maddeningly. You keep at it until your skin feels so raw that you can’t take it anymore.

The only time you’re untied is when you need to relieve yourself. That doesn’t happen often, anyway, since you’ve been refusing to drink water or eat anything. You can’t deny that the roasts, stews, and cooked vegetables they offer you look delicious. And the water…you don’t know how much longer you can last without it.

You were under constant supervision the first day you were awake. That didn’t last long. While trying to get a better angle on your bonds, you’d accidentally tipped the chair over. When it fell, your head hit the ground. You were out again for several hours. You guess they'd deemed your escape ability non-threatening. After that, you’d mostly just been checked on. Every hour or so, one of the five cowboys peeks his head in to make sure you’re still there, still bound, and still alive.

You hate them. The bandit in black is the worst, but the ones in blue and red are almost as bad. They poke fun at you and tease you as often as they can. The cowboy in green hardly interacts with you. You aren’t sure why, but it makes you like him best, if you can even say that.

The bandit in brown is a mystery. He sits with you every night as the designated night watchman. He speaks to you, too. You never talk back, but that doesn’t seem to bother him. His name is Jongho, you’ve learned, though you neglected to share yours when he asked. You don’t really understand why he does it—none of the others spend their entire shift in this dilapidated shed with you. But he does. Every single night, he’s there. Every single night, he offers water. Every single night, you refuse.

Pride feels like a stupid thing to die for, but you cling to it like moss to a tree trunk.

On the fourth night of being awake, the heat hits a high. It seems to seep through the planks, even at night. You could swear the walls themselves are sweating. Your own perspiration drips down your neck. It doesn’t help that you’re wearing a dress not well-suited for spending a lot of time outside. The lace has turned brown, the gloves are nowhere to be seen. Your normally perfectly styled locks have fallen from their nest atop your head and are splayed across your face, sticking to it now with sweat.

Again, he’s here. The bandit in brown, Jongho, sits on that upturned stool. Tonight he reads quietly. No chit-chat tonight. Sometimes, you wonder when he sleeps, since he stays up all night beside you. He pauses from reading, sticking a finger into his collar. He tugs it out, fanning it back and forth to push air down onto his chest.

“Phew,” he says, “it’s hotter than hell in here tonight.”

You don’t respond. You never do. But you watch from the corner of your eye as he lifts the canteen to his lips. Your tongue darts forward in your own mouth, as if you were the one drinking. A drop of water clings to his bottom lip. He gently thumbs it away, then looks over to you.

You gulp. Your breathing is labored. You’re so tired and sore. Every bone in your body aches, and you’re so unbelievably thirsty. It’s been four days without water. Your head pounds, set off by each step toward you Jongho takes.

Normally, he pauses in front of you to offer you a drink. But, tonight, he circles around to your back. You tense when his fingers touch your arms. Pain shocks through you.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. You hiss when his fingertip grazes one of the rope burns on your wrist. “You did a number on these wrists, princess. I’ll hafta bring somethin’ to fix those up tomorrow night.”

You whimper and groan as he works behind you. You have no idea what he’s doing back there, but it hurts like hell. Then, the pain subsides. Your shoulders fall. On instinct, you move your arms to find them free.

As Jongho walks back around to your front, you look up at him with wide eyes. His expression is calm, controlled. He clearly isn’t worried about you running off. Probably because his buddies are all gathered outside the cabin. But…it’s strange. His kindness makes no sense. He knows you can’t escape and likely won’t try. Buttering you up certainly won’t make your father hand over more cash. So why is he being so nice to you?

You bring your arms around to where they should go. You gasp when you see them—big bands of deep reddish-pink encircling both wrists. Dried blood has crusted over some of it. You gently press a fingertip to it and inhale sharply at the stinging sensation that follows. Gently, you rest your hands in your lap.

Now, he resumes his normal position crouching beside you. He stares for a moment, and you gulp under his gaze. Your windpipe is so dry it feels like it sticks together for a moment too long. Then, Jongho holds up the canteen.

“Drink?”

You don’t reply. Your body is trembling, knowing that relief is so close. When you don’t move for several moments, he sighs deeply.

“If you don’t take at least a sip of this, you’re gonna die, princess,” he continues. “The human body can’t go forever without water.”

Your chest caves in; you know he’s right. But the thought of giving up after all these days feels almost worse than dying. But you don’t have any idea how much longer you’ll be stuck here. If these bandits did, as they said they would, send out a ransom note for you, you’re certain your father would pay it. Depending on how much they asked for, it would take him several days to acquire all the cash. Plus, you have no way of knowing whether your father even received the ransom note. You assume they noted from the bank deposit slip that you’re Elias Harrington’s daughter. But how long would they keep you to press Daddy for more money? It could be forever. They’re already criminals, anyway, so it’s not as if they have much to lose by holding out.

You eye the canteen. Then, you look up at him. His eyebrows are upturned, dark brown eyes gentle. You remember that, from the day they took you. You remember thinking, even then, that his eyes looked soft. He looks…concerned, worried about you. You snap.

“Why do you care?” you ask, voice so cracked that it hardly comes out at all.

“What?”

“Why do you care if I live or die? It’s not like my father will know I’m dead. You’ll still get the money, either way. So why do you care whether I’m dead?”

He studies you for a moment, eyes tracing your face. Then, he breathes deeply and replies, “I disagree. We promised your daddy that we’d give you back alive. If Elias Harrington finds out we let you die, he’ll have the Sheriff on us faster than lightnin’.”

“How do you know he won’t do that anyway?”

“‘Cause it’s part of the deal we worked out with him. If he puts the Sheriff on us, we shoot you.”

You shiver at the thought. So, they do know who you are, who your family is. And they’ve been in contact with Daddy. Somehow, that almost makes you feel worse to know that your family is involved in this now, too.

“You talked to my father?” you ask.

“Mhm. He’s gonna pay for your freedom, for us to hand you over alive and well.”

“When?”

Jongho shrugs.

“Don’t know yet. Buck,” the bandit with the black bandana, “drives a hard bargain. He’s tryna squeeze your old man for every penny he’s willing to part with to get you back.”

Your gut drops. You figured that would be the case.

“So, are you gonna drink some of this damn water or not?” he continues.

He swings the canteen and the water sloshes around inside. Your mouth drops open in anticipation.

You break.

A nod is all Jongho needs. He springs into action. He stands and positions the canteen near your lips. One of his hands slides under your chin, tilting your head up to the right angle. The other carefully pours the water into your mouth. Your hands fly up to brace the canteen. Your fingers overlap on his, but you don’t care.

As soon as the first drop touches your tongue, your eyes roll shut. You gulp greedily, water spilling over your chin. You can feel his thumb swiping away the excess moisture. Your gut feels uneasy at the tenderness, but you don’t care. You need more water.

You swallow air for a few seconds before both of you realize that the canteen is empty. You open your eyes, staring up at him pathetically. Your chest heaves—you don’t think you took one breath while you were gobbling down that water.

He maintains your gaze, eyes trained intensely on you. His own lips are parted, and his chest rises and falls heavily. He reaches up, gingerly swiping his thumb along your chin to wipe away the water that had dripped there. For a moment, you can’t look away. You feel a little lightheaded, probably from the massive influx of water into your thoroughly dehydrated system. After what feels like ages, he finally rips his gaze away. He faces you just long enough that you see his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

You shake your head and angrily wipe your forearm against your chin where he had just touched you so tenderly. He returns to his spot in the corner, picking up his book as if he’d never left it. You don’t say another word to each other that night. But he lays out a blanket on the floor and rolls up another one for a makeshift pillow. He doesn’t say anything about it; he doesn’t retie your bonds either.

That night, you rest your head on a pillow, or at least something resembling one. Despite the welcome comforts, you lie awake most of the night. You think, wonder, try to understand his kindness. That soft look in his eye.

Why does he really care...

PART THREE

It becomes a ritual, this ruse you and Jongho are pulling. Over the next few days, life proceeds in a similar fashion. You spend your days much the same, although Jongho has conducted some negotiations on your behalf. He’s won you the privilege of moving the rope that ties you to your chair around your torso instead of your wrists. Now, you’re able to use your hands to flip the pages of a book that he also stowed away for you.

Jongho brings you updates every now and then, letting you know what’s taking so long to get you back to your father. Apparently, Buck, who Jongho calls the leader of the group, keeps moving the amount due up every day. In turn, your father is being forced to continue withdrawing more and more funds. That puts him behind a day, Buck raises the ransom the next day, and Daddy is behind again.

You remain stoic and cold during the day in the presence of the other four bandits. But, at night, you allow your guard to fall down. Just a little.

Jongho still comes each night. He unties you, lets you eat the extra dinner he’s squirreled away, gives you the canteen of water to empty, and then makes up your bed. You talk. Every night, you talk about things. He tells you stories and then tells you about him. You do the same. Every morning, he wakes you early and secures you back to the chair so none of his fellow members are the wiser.

He bought some ointment for your rope burn. Since it hurts like hell to bend your wrists, he applies it for you. That was the first time your stomach fluttered. It was a passing feeling—just a quick sensation that rose up, like an unwanted flame, before you quashed it. Problem is, it happens again. And again. And again.

Now, it’s hard for you to relax when he’s around at night because your heart pounds heavy in your chest. You’re starting to like too many things about him. Those soft, big brown eyes. His sweet grin, the way his eyes crinkle when he’s genuinely happy, the way he smiles so big that you can see his top gums. His gentle strength. Sometimes, he reminds you of a bear that way. Just a big, soft, strong man. After a while, it’s difficult even to imagine that this is the same man who robbed a bank and kidnapped you for ransom.

It’s easy, however, to see the others that way. They’ve never shown you a shred of kindness or softness. The worst of them remains Buck, the bandit with the black bandana.

On the eighth day, you find yourself in the cabin on a particularly pleasant summer afternoon. You’re flipping through the last pages of the book Jongho has lent you when you hear a crash outside the door. Your head snaps up to search for the owner of the sound. A scuffle follows before the door swings open. You flinch when it crashes against the wall.

Raising his head, Buck stumbles into the cabin. You sigh, returning to your novel. It must be his hour to check in on you. He giggles, and you slowly lift your gaze. At first, you think he might be injured or something, considering the way he’s swaying back and forth. But the smirk that curls across his disgusting face says otherwise.

Your grip tightens on the book with every stomp forward he takes. He loses his balance when he reaches you, his hand curling around the arm of the chair to keep from falling. He swings forward, breath ghosting over your face. You crinkle your nose and look away. His breath is acidic, stained with the toxic stench of alcohol.

“Hi, princess,” he drawls, breath ghosting across your cheek.

“Ugh…”

You strain your neck to lean further away from him. You can hear his saliva when he breathes through his mouth, thick in his throat. He’s practically panting as he slides his hand onto your cheek. You lean away but he’s too strong. His fingers press lazily into your skin to turn your head back to him. You wiggle in the chair, tugging against the bonds.

“Go away, Buck.”

“Such a pretty face…” he coos, dragging his fingers down your throat and onto your collarbones.

Panic starts to jump into your throat as you realize that you’re alone. You consider screaming for help, but you don’t know if anyone else is here right now. Besides, Jongho is the only one of them who would help you, anyway.

“Wonder what’s down here,” he continues, words slurred together. 

His finger dips lower, flirting with the lace along the top of your gown’s bodice. You curl your shoulders inward, place your feet on the floor, and try to scoot away or move frantically to throw off his balance. Nothing works. His manic eyes are trained on your chest, almost bulging from his skull. He licks his lips through heavy mouth-breaths.

“Get off, Buck! You’re drunk!” you shout.

You swing your foot up, trying to kick him. He’s standing on your dress so your leg can’t reach. He just laughs darkly. He hooks his finger onto the lace and starts to pull it down, revealing centimeter by centimeter of your breast. You struggle against him, trying again to kick him or punch him with your bound arms. He moves in, lips hovering by your neck. You shriek, eyes closing tightly.

Somehow, you manage to angle your foot just right. A moment before his disgusting saliva touches your skin, you knock him directly in the crotch. He grunts, hands immediately flying to the area as he stumbles backward. He trips over a bucket and hits the ground. If you weren’t so terrified, you would laugh.

He only stays down for a moment, the alcohol in his blood probably fueling him. He pops back up not a moment later. With that familiar rage in his eyes, he approaches you, rearing up to backhand you. You brace, lifting your head to take it on the chest. You close your eyes and prepare for pain.

It never comes.

Instead, a voice.

“I warned you.”

Jongho.

You open your eyes to see Buck’s fist wavering in the air, encircled by Jongho’s hand. Buck looks uncharacteristically terrified. It makes perfect sense. Without a gun, Buck is nothing, especially compared to Jongho. His raw strength is probably triple what skinny, lanky Buck’s is. Jongho could overpower him and make it look easy, just like he’s doing right now.

“You don’t touch her,” Jongho continues, voice deep and raw. “You lay a finger on her again, I will kill you myself. And I’ll be slow.”

You watch, breathless, as Buck physically shrinks under Jongho’s stare. You’ve never seen anger like it before. It looks wrong on Jongho. But it works. Buck nods, gulping. He glances at you, the fear obvious in his eyes, and then staggers out of the cabin.

Jongho closes his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. Then, he looks over at you. It’s incredible, the way his anger melts into softness so quickly.

“You alright?” he asks, his tone gentler than it was just a few seconds ago.

You can’t speak. All you can do is nod. Your heart is pounding but not from fear. It almost feels like you need to cry, but no tears are anywhere in sight. The emotion sits heavy in your chest, though you’re not sure what exactly it is.

Jongho’s jaw clenches. He looks at you for a moment before ducking out of the cabin.

You don’t see him for the rest of the afternoon or evening, which isn’t abnormal. But when he comes in that night, he seems tense. The silence feels different…heavy. Something feels wrong. He unties you, as normal. Slides you dinner and water, as normal. Sits on his bucket and cleans his gun and reads, as normal. But he doesn’t talk, doesn’t smile, doesn’t even try to engage you in any way.

Your stomach feels like it has a rock in it. You feel sick, and you hate it.

When you’re finished eating, you fetch the ointment for your wrists. They’ve healed enough, you can probably do it yourself. You sit on the blanket that has become your makeshift bed and pop open the can.

“What’re you doin’?” he asks.

You look over at him.

“Putting on the ointment. As usual.”

Disapproval crosses his face. He closes the book and comes to sit by you.

“I can do it,” you offer. “I think they’re healed enough that I ca-”

“Hush.”

Your lips snap shut; you don’t argue. You hand over your wrists. He dips a finger into the ointment and takes your wrist in his palm. You normally watch as he applies it. This time, you watch his face while he works. His eyebrows furrow in concentration. His mouth quivers just slightly as he tries not to hurt you. His fingertips are surprisingly soft, gentle as always. He holds your arm like a wounded bird, firm enough that you can’t escape, but not too tight. His finger swipes along the pink lines, brushing the ointment onto your skin. Goosebumps rise on your skin when his thumb glides along your pulse point. Your mouth falls open involuntarily. He’s like an artist perfecting a painting.

His touch is gone as quickly as it began. You clear your throat and turn away to hide the heat that creeps up your cheeks.

“I’m pretty tired. I’m gonna just go to sleep, now,” you say.

“I’ll be over here if you need anythin’.”

He nods, offering a tight-lipped smile. You return it. You spin away from him, curling up under the blanket and willing yourself to go to sleep.

Unfortunately, nature has other plans this evening.

It’s freezing.

You can’t remember ever being so cold at night during the summertime before. But you are tonight. You clutch the blanket up by your chin, but shivers rack your entire body. You shut your eyes harder, trying to ignore it. But you can’t. You just keep shuddering.

“You alright, princess?” Jongho asks.

You wince. He noticed. Steeling yourself, you reply, “Mhm. Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Y-yes,” you reply, cursing yourself when your shivers make you stutter.

A beat of silence passes before you hear him rummaging around. Then, you hear his boots as he walks over toward you. You hold the blanket with white knuckles. He stops behind you. Your entire body tenses as you try not to shake. Your heart stops at the feeling of his hand on your shoulder.

“You’re shiverin,’” he mumbles.

“I’m j-just a little c-cold,” you counter. “I’ll be f-fine.”

Your eyes remain stubbornly shut, so it’s a bit of a surprise when you feel him slide between the blankets behind you. You go stiff as a corpse when the solid wall of his chest hits your back. One strong arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.

“Er…” you say, not really meaning to.

“Relax, princess,” he mumbles into your hair. “I don’t have any extra blankets, so if you wanna stop shiverin’ this is the only way to do it.”

You gulp. But you don’t argue. You would never tell him, but it feels good. You fit perfectly in his arms. The way he holds you feels nice. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat, his breathing. And he’s warm. His heat seeps through your clothes, as if it was swimming into your bones. Your eyes flutter closed.

Minutes pass…or hours, you can’t be sure. The fire outside crackles low. You hear a wolf howling in the distance.

“Why?” you whisper into the dark. “Why do you keep saving me?”

“Hmm?” he asks, voice thick with sleepiness.

“At the bank, you stopped Buck from shooting me. You gave me food, water, ointment for the burns. You untied me, made me a bed, gave me a book to read. And today…today you saved me again, from Buck. Why? And don’t lie this time.”

He’s still for so long you think he’s fallen asleep. Then his arm tightens, pulling you impossibly closer.

“My brother, Jinho,” he replies, voice raw. “He’s twenty years old. But his lungs…they don’t…they don’t work right. When he breathes, it sounds like he’s drownin’. It’s like he’s got water inside his throat or somethin’. There’s medicine for it, but it costs fifty dollars a bottle.” His voice cracks slightly. “That’s why I do this. Rob banks, kidnap people for ransom, whatever it is. That’s why I ride with Buck. ‘Cause I…I need the money. But I…but that’s not why I’m protectin’ you.”

You feel him swallow against your shoulder blade. You twist in his arms until you’re face-to-face. Your noses are inches away from one another, moonlight cutting through the cracked windows to paint your faces silver. His eyes are glassy. He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, grazes your jaw with his knuckles.

“I like you,” he whispers. “I don’t want you hurt. You’re…” he laughs nervously, eyes flicking down and then back up. “You’re the most beautiful thing I ever laid eyes on. And it ain’t just your face, princess. It’s…everything about you. The fire inside you. I just…”

Your stomach is swimming in circles, and everything feels in vibration. Your chest grows tight with adrenaline, with excitement, with need. The tips of your fingers ache to touch him. So, you do. You reach out, fingers snagging on his mouth. You feel his unsteady breath on your skin. Eyes trained on him, your lips part.

“Jongho,” you breathe.

You don’t know who moves first. One second there’s an inch of air between you, and the next your mouth is on his. He kisses like a starving man. His lips open wide, bringing you deeper into him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling so hard you think you’ve unlatched a button. His palm wraps around your back, protecting your spine when he rolls forward. His hips press you down into the blanket. One of your hands slides up his neck and into his hair. He kisses you deeply but softly. He angles his head so that his nose brushes your cheekbone with every new kiss.

His free hand rests on the nape of your neck, fingers outstretched to support your head. His tongue swipes along your bottom lip; you open without question. He groans quietly into your mouth, tongue tangling with yours. He tastes like coffee and smoke. You want to drink him in forever. Your fingers slip from his collar and slide onto the bare skin of his chest. You feel nothing but muscle. A gasp slips from your lips, and he hesitates and pulls back.

You look up at him as you try to catch your breath. He gazes down at you, eyes hazy but focused on your face.

“Oh shit…I’m sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Christ, I’m sorry.”

“What for? Why’d you stop?” you ask, wriggling underneath him. Your eyes flick down to his lips and then back up.

He laughs, smile crooked.

“This can’t be right…this…this can’t be real. You’re so fine and clean and goddamn pretty. You’re worth a hundred of me. I’m just…I’m dirt, I’m nothin’. And I’m takin’ advantage of you. I’m usin’ you for ransom money. I don’t deserve this. You. I don’t deserve it. It’s-”

You lunge up and capture his lips again. You lick into his mouth, sliding against his tongue, until he relaxes against you again. When you pull back, you peck him one more time.

“I don’t give a shit,” you say. His eyes flash open, clearly surprised that a woman of your station knows such a dirty word. “And I’m not some kinda fragile doll. I want this. I want you. I don’t care what happens tomorrow. I just want you to make me feel somethin’ tonight.”

He sighs deeply. His eyes are impossibly soft and needy, like a puppy’s. His pupils are blown huge, lashes fluttering. There’s nothing left in them but pure, unguarded worship. You swallow a moan and kiss him again, slower, deeper. The blanket gets twisted around your legs. His hand finds its way under your skirts, mouth on your collarbones. You arch against him, begging for it.

He gives you everything you ask for and more.

Later, you find yourself lying on top of him. Your cheek rests on his chest, and you listen to his heartbeat. His fingers trace lazy shapes on your bare shoulder.

“I can get you the money,” you say into the quiet, words tumbling out.

“Hm?” he asks.

You spin in his grasp, bracing yourself on his chest so that you can look at him.

“The money that you need to pay for your brother’s medicine,” you explain. “I can get it for you. Enough for every dose he’ll ever need.”

His eyebrows knit and then he shakes his head.

“I…no. No, I can’t. I can’t accept it.”

“Take me home tomorrow,” you push. “I’ll tell my daddy you rescued me. We’ll blame it all on Buck and the others. My daddy’ll pay anythin’ to get me back safe, and I can guarantee he’ll pay even more as a reward to the man who brought back his daughter.”

He stares at you for a moment. Then, his jaw tightens.

“They’ll kill me the second they hear my name, princess.”

“No, they won’t. Not if I say you’re the hero.”

He scoffs.

“How can that even be possible? Even with a reward from your daddy, fifty dollars a month is…”

He looks unconvinced. You smile teasingly, reaching up and dragging a finger down his chest. He shudders underneath your touch.

“Trust me, Jongho. I got a way of always gettin’ what I want, especially when it comes to Daddy.”

He searches your face for a long time. Then, his expression softens. He smiles sweetly and slides a palm onto your face. You lean into his touch. His thumb brushes along your swollen bottom lip. He nods.

“Alright,” he whispers. “I trust you.”

Neither of you sleep a wink. Instead, you spend the early morning hours planning your escape. As soon as the sun starts to bleed pink across the sky, you grab what you need and hop onto his horse. Used to sneaking into places he doesn’t belong, Jongho is an expert at stealth. He helps you up, unbound this time. He wraps his arm around you, palm splayed possessively over your stomach.

And you take off back toward town. You guide him and, within the hour, you find yourself at home.

Jongho’s horse slows to a stop in front of the big white house on the hill, the one with the wrap-around porch and the Harrington crest carved into the gate. He scoffs behind you.

“Buck would drop dead if he saw this,” he muses.

You playfully smack his shoulder. He helps you dismount, and you make your way to the door. Before you can even knock, the large oak door swings open. Your fist suspended in the air looks quite odd beside the face of your family’s maid. She shrieks in delight.

“Miss Harrington! Oh thank God!” she shouts. “We didn’t think we’d ever get you back! Oh, the mister and missus!”

Without another word, the maid spins on her heel and goes dashing up the stairs, yelling, “Mr. Harrington! Mrs. Harrington! The miss is home! Miss Harrington is home!”

You smile sweetly, imagining how terrified everyone in the house must have been. Most of the staff had worked for your parents longer than you’d been alive. They knew you when you were just a baby.

Doors slam and footsteps echo. Your mother appears first, wrapped in a robe with her hair still done up in her nightly braid. With one hand pressed to her heart, she flies down the steps. She’s sobbing before she even reaches you.

She engulfs you in a hug, and you wince as she knocks against your wounded wrists. You glance up at the stairs to see your father, eyes glassy, standing at the top. He descends quickly and melts onto you and your mother. Their arms enclose you so tightly that you think you might be choked to death. You breathe deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of cedar and tobacco that belongs to your father.

You feel your father go stiff and gasp as you remember Jongho’s presence. Looking at your rescuer over your shoulder, you immediately notice how uncomfortable he seems. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. Backing away from your parents, you move to stand beside him.

“Darling, who is this man?” your father asks, voice harsh. It’s the same tone he always uses in business deals.

“This is Choi Jongho,” you answer. You take hold of his arm and smile at him. “He saved me.”

Jongho’s body is tense, but you feel him relax a bit when he looks down at you. Your father steps forward.

“Is that so? You brought my little girl home?” Mr. Harrington booms.

Jongho gulps but straightens.

“Yes, sir. I did.”

You don’t wait for gratitude or questions. You intertwine your fingers with Jongho's. The entire staff has gathered, spilling out from the main foyer into the hallways and other rooms attached to it.

“Daddy,” you announce, clear and loud, “Jongho and I are gonna be married.”

Silence drops like a curtain.

Your mother’s mouth falls open. Your father blinks, once, twice, like he’s been shot but just hasn’t felt it yet. One of the servants drops a silver tray he was holding. It clangs against the marble floor, the sound echoing throughout the foyer. You feel Jongho stiffen again beside you. You see him staring at you from the corner of your eye, but you don’t budge.

“Princess—” Jongho mutters.

You squeeze his hand to silence him and turn to face your father fully, chin high. You paste on the same spoiled little smile you’ve worn since you were six years old.

“I know exactly what I want, Daddy,” you say, loud enough for half the county to hear. “And I want him.”

Your father stares at Jongho—at the quiet, broad-shouldered man beside you. Something shifts behind your Daddy’s eyes. It always happens like this when you’re working hard to get what you want. Your father exhales deeply, drags a hand through his silver hair, and finally nods.

“Well,” he says, voice still raspy from sleep, “if this is what you want, my darling girl, then it’s what you’ll get.”

Jongho opens his mouth—probably to argue with you that he’s not worthy of you. But you don’t let him get a single syllable out. You raise up on your tiptoes, grab hold of his dusty brown shirt, and kiss him right there in front of everyone.

When you pull back, Jongho’s eyes are sparkling, lips curling up into the biggest, softest smile you’ve ever seen. The cheer that erupts from the servants rattles the windows in the house. You giggle, nuzzling into his side.

EPILOGUE

You pull the white sleeve down over the scar on your wrist that has never healed properly. As you glance up, you see something unusual in the reflection: simplicity. The girl looking back wears a simple white muslin gown. No diamonds today, just wildflowers tucked between plaited hair and the silver band already on your left finger.

The organ starts up. The door to your dressing room opens wide. Your father steps in, smiling.

“Ready, my darling?” he asks.

“Absolutely.”

Sunlight pours into the church like liquid gold. It coats all of the white flowers, bathes the wedding guests in soft, warm light. But you hardly notice it. Your eyes are fixed on the end of the aisle.

He looks so handsome. No hat, hair combed neatly. His face is clean of dirt and grime, the black suit that hugs his frame fits perfectly to his body. He looks every inch the respectable rancher your father has transformed him into.

Buck and his gang were captured, arrested, and charged about twenty miles from Harrington Bank & Trust. A couple of the members got away with jailtime, but most of them were sentenced and hanged within the week. Jongho struggled with it all, at first. He felt responsible, as if he had led those men to their deaths. But you, as always, knew just what to say. Jongho became a better man; as much as you might have influenced him onto the path, he made the decision. His previous work associates could have done the same at any time. They didn’t. You know it still bothers him, but you’ll be there every day to remind him to go easy on himself if that's what it takes.

When you step up to the altar, Jongho reaches out to take your hands from your father’s grasp. You stifle a giggle when he winks at you. You squeeze his fingers. The preacher pronounces you man and wife. Jongho wraps his arms around you, dipping you back and kissing you silly.

At the reception, everyone dances and drinks and laughs. Just as you always imagined it. Jongho is pulled into a dance with your mother. He glances back at you nervously, but you just laugh and shrug. A young man with dark hair and eyes approaches you. He startles you so much you almost spill your champagne.

“Congratulations,” he says quietly.

“Oh, thank you very much!” you reply with a smile. You tilt your head. “I’m sorry, have we met? You look so familiar…” As the young man smiles, it hits you. You gasp. “Jinho? Jongho’s brother?”

His grin widens, and he nods. He looks incredibly healthy. Overwhelmed with emotion, you lurch forward and capture him in a hug. He chuckles but hugs you back.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says when you separate. “Not just for helpin’ me get better, but for makin’ Jongho so happy. He’s been worried ‘bout me for so long, I didn’t know if he’d ever be happy again. But you’ve made him happy, happier than I’ve ever seen him. So, thank you, for everythin’.”

You smile, tears pricking at your eyes. As if on cue, Jongho saunters up. His cheeks are red from all the dancing and the liquor. Jinho is right, he does look happy. Incandescently happy. Jongho hugs his brother then turns to you. Eyes sparkling, he takes your hand and steps closer.

“Would you care to get some air with me?” he whispers into your ear.

You squint your eyes in suspicion but nod. He leads you outside onto the balcony. The air is cold, but he pulls you close. You rest your head on his shoulder as you stare up at the night sky.

“You like that suit, huh?” you tease, smirking up at him.

“What is that ‘sposed to mean?” he asks defensively.

You bite your lip.

“You feel good in it. I can tell. I’m glad. It was expensive.”

He laughs, pulling you closer.

“Never thought I’d wind up here. In an expensive suit, standing on the balcony of an estate, arm around the prettiest, richest, most spoiled little princess I ever saw.”

You giggle, playfully smacking his arm. His smile fades for a moment. He drags his knuckles across your cheekbone.

“Sometimes it still feels like I stole somethin’ too fine for me,” he says quietly.

You smile.

“Well, beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, as they say,” you reply. “Good thing you’re just as pretty as me.”

His cheeks puff for a moment before he bursts into laughter. You slide your arms around his torso, resting your chin on his chest. He kisses the top of your head.

The music’s still playing inside. But out here, the only thing that matters is the steady beat of his heart under your palm and the little diamond on your finger that says your ransom’s been paid in full.

taglist: @rileylovescats @wooyoungsbrat @estrnrea @strawberrymars98 @elunicornus

[milatiny-xx]

Hi! Just wanted to stop by and say I love your cowboy/Wild West ateez series. You do such good world building for a short story and I always look forward to reading more!

aw! thank you so much!! i've had a blast writing them :) 💖💖

[milatiny-xx]

death house | c.s

⊹₊⟡⋆ Westeez Series | Part 6 of 8 ⊹₊⟡⋆

pairing: cowboy!san x fem!reader summary: He stumbled into your life half-dead, now you can't let him leave. tags: cowboy/wild west AU, post-civil war era, hurt/comfort, grief/trauma; fairly detailed descriptions of of blood, injury, and gore; mentions of suicide, miscarriage, and death; reader is pregnant in the epilogue (sorry spoilers) wc: 7.9k a/n: this fic turned out way heavier than i was anticipating, so please be aware of the tags above before you read! on another note, trying to find a pic of san from the work MV where he didn't look like a GOOBER was surprisingly really hard <3

⊹₊⟡⋆ masterlist | taglist ⊹₊⟡⋆

PROLOGUE

The wagon jolts to a stop at the end of the dirt road. The reins go slack in your gloved hands. You sit, longer than you should, staring at a house. It’s not the fanciest building you’ve ever seen, but it’s constructed well. You could hardly tell that this house had been built in a hurry, just before harsh winter set upon the plains.

Your brother had done quite a decent job building it, despite having no formal experience. Jesse had purchased this unclaimed land in 1857 and set to work making it a home for himself and his wife, Mary. Jesse had always been a caretaker, for as long as you can remember. He’d always wanted a big house with lots of children and animals. As abandoned and dark as the house now looks, your brother had gotten his wish. At least for a while.

As you stare past a broken pane on one of the windows, you see nothing but darkness inside the house. You won’t find solace within its walls. That you already know. This house will not offer comfort nor love. This would never again be a home.

It couldn’t. It had already swallowed two lives.

Jesse lasted three years here, long enough to build the foundations for the house, a small fenced-in pasture, and the beginning of a well. When he got called to arms by the cavalry, he’d left everything and gone in service of his dear Union. When word finally reached, six months later, of your brother’s death…you can still recall the feeling. Every second of that pain. Every cursed heartbeat that sent grief pulsing through your veins again and again.

Five months ago, Mary had gone, too. She’d tied a plow rope to a dogwood tree in front of the house. The coroner said the baby in her belly never drew breath before Mary took her last. They’re buried here, beside the house under the dogwood. Three little gravestones, the smallest for your brother’s unborn child.

Ripping your gaze away from the flowerless dogwood, you climb down from the wagon. Your boots kick up dust as you shuffle onto the stone pathway toward the little red-painted door that you’re sure was Mary's idea. You pass the well. Its stones lie crumbled in a pile, a layer of dried mortar too hard to use now. It looks so unfinished, so in progress that it feels like it just slipped Jesse's mind. Like he would be back to finish it any second now.

Your shaking fingers curl around the key the lawyer gave to you. The metal is cold in your palm. It clicks like breaking bones in the lock. One step across the threshold sends a shiver down your spine. Death seems to cling to the doorframe like old smoke.

You try to shake it away, knowing death is a passing thing. It can’t be stored in old wood and metal hinges. It’s just an uneasy feeling. But you can hardly bear it. The empty, ashen hearth. The empty pegs where your brother must have hung his hat. The empty cradle in the corner.

The very first thing you do is push open the windows. One of them sticks, and you can only get it up halfway. Another doesn’t stay, and you have to prop it open with the poker from the fireplace. Uninhabited for almost half a year, this poor house needs some looking after.

You stop for a moment and listen.

Wind brushes through the brown grass like a comb through beautiful silken hair. Leaves skid along the stone pathway, dried and ready for winter. There are no neighbors for twelve miles in any direction from this house. Strangely, that realization is the first thing to steady your heart in this house marked by Death.

Despite all of its haunting histories, this house will be somewhat of a haven.

Here, no one will ask why you’ve never married. No one will measure your waist or tug your wild hair into submission. Never again will you be forced to dance with gentlemen who have nothing in common with you other than a heartbeat and blood in their veins. For twenty-six years, everyone you knew had tried to mold you into shapes that never suited you. Dutiful daughter, accomplished lady, silent wife.

You have buried a father, a mother, two stillborn nephews you never held, and now a brother. You are no stranger to Death. Rather, Death is a constant companion. And the only person you’ve learned to rely on.

And now, without a single soul within twelve miles of your little house, you and Death will get on just fine.

As you unpack, the dogwood creaks and groans in the wind.

It’s going to be a horrible winter, said your brother-in-law. Jesse left the house to you, it won’t go anywhere. You should wait until spring.

How that man managed to have hope after burying two of his sons, your sister’s boys, you would never understand. He, on the other hand, would never understand how badly you needed out of his world.

You glance up at the tree. Tomorrow, you will cut it down and burn it. It will provide ample firewood to keep you warm during this terrible winter your brother-in-law spoke of. When spring does come, you will plant something else in its place. Something new.

But tonight, for the first time, you will sleep beneath a roof that belongs not to your father, not to your husband, but to you. Tonight, you will rest your head on a pillow that you dragged across three states. And tonight, you will be left alone.

You inhale deeply, holding it for a moment before releasing it. The knot inside your chest loosens.

Let Death keep its silence. You have come here to begin your own.

PART ONE

There are only two sounds in this still room: a quill scratching across paper and the wood cracking in the fireplace.

My dearest sister,

Jesse did not lie in his letters. The plains here truly are never-ending. They stretch out even further than it seems on the map. I can hardly wait to see how lovely it will look in the spring and summer when everything is green and blooming. Right now, everything is dead and bare. But even then, dear sissy, it’s so pristine. The ground is covered in a blanket of white snow, and it lies untouched, unspoiled by man or beast. It’s wonderfully beautiful.

I have settled in nicely. All of the farm animals have arrived from town, and I’ve found looking after them quite a chore. But I like it. It gives me something to do other than knitting or reading.

As you may imagine, my favorite thing about this place is the quiet. It is so complete, I can hear my very heart beating in my chest. I have not seen another living soul in the two months that I have been here. As you may also imagine, I like that very much.

I think I will do well here and do not want you worrying yourself sick about me. I will find my way home for Christmas. But, for now, here I persist in my little Death House.

You sign the letter with the same looping motion that you were taught years ago at finishing school. Disgust settles in your chest at how easy, effortlessly, the movement still is after all these years. You fold the paper into thirds and place it to the side.

You aren’t certain if you’ll send it. Calling this place your Death House somehow makes it easier to live within its walls. It feels like an inside joke, between you and the house itself. It’s funny to you, but you aren’t sure if your sister will understand it the same way. Besides, even if you did want to send it, the closest post is twenty miles away. It would be an entire day’s journey just to mail one letter. It would be much safer and smarter to wait for the post rider to bring along your sister’s next letter and just pass it on to him.

With a sigh, you lean back in the chair and fix your gaze on the front lawn outside your window. Your eyes snag on the dogwood outside. You’d never found the motivation to cut it down. Something stopped you every time, though you couldn’t place your finger on exactly what. So it stays, creaking and swaying gently in the winter wind.

As your stare swipes across the snowy horizon, something catches your eye. Sitting up in your chair, you lean toward the window and squint in an effort to see better.

At first, you think it must be some sort of animal. Jesse's letters had mentioned wolves, coyotes, and bears, among other creatures. It’s medium-sized and covered in fur. The way it stumbles forward leads you to believe it must be injured. It’s a wolf, you think. Not a very big one, but a wolf just the same.

You stand slowly and reach beside your writing desk, fingers clamping around the barrel of Jesse's Winchester rifle. You won’t shoot it. Not unless it makes its way up to the porch, and then…then you might not have a choice.

As the creature creeps further into view, it begins to change shape. It shifts in the snow and suddenly you can make out shoulders, legs, an arm, and…a face. A human face. A man’s face. You gasp, the rifle slipping from your fingers and clanging against the floor.

Now you can see that this man is clearly injured. One arm clutches his side while the other claws at the snow, digging forward as if he were pulling himself out of a grave.

Your heart slams against your chest, breaths coming heavily now.

You should bar the door. Secure every available lock and push furniture in front of the entrances so he can’t break in, although you aren’t sure he would even be able to, given his condition. You should pick up the rifle and crouch by the window. Aim it at his crumpled form and prepare to shoot should you need to.

Instead, you find yourself rushing outside, boots skidding on the icy stone path. You make it within a few steps of him before his strength gives out. He collapses into the snow, face buried underneath it. With much effort, you manage to roll him over, heave his arms around your neck, and stumble back inside with his heavy body limp on your back.

You kick the door closed with your foot and somehow drag him all the way into the parlour and drop him on the sofa. A trail of snow and water follows behind you. His weight is a challenge to your strength, and he tips, threatening to slide onto the floor. Groans and pants fly from your lips as you nudge him onto his back. His legs spill off the edge of the cushions; he’s clearly too tall for your little two-person couch.

“Sir?” you ask, at first quietly and then louder. “Sir? Sir?! Can you hear me?”

He replies in a series of weak grunts, eyelashes fluttering but remaining closed. His body tenses for a moment, as if fighting to sit up, but then falls limp. His head rolls to the side, and, for a moment, you’re terrified that he might have died. You place two fingers on the pulse point in his neck, sighing in relief when you feel it beating under your touch.

As you begin to examine him for injuries, you take note of his face. He’s younger than his pathetic, desperate crawling made him seem. He’s in his mid-twenties by the look of it. His hair is black as night, plastered onto his forehead with a mixture of melting snow and blood. Despite his haggard appearance, he’s quite handsome. His skin is smooth and honeyed, lips pouted, and nose straight.

He wears a massive fur coat made from what looks to be a wolf—that explains your earlier confusion. He looked so much like a wolf because he wears its skin. You’ve never seen anything like it. You wonder where he bought it or…perhaps he made it.

His shirt, once blue according to the untouched sleeves, is mostly stained deep red from the blood that has seeped through. It’s spreading down onto his denim pants, too. The belt that is latched there has a golden emblem of a horserider. You glance further down, taking in the cowboy boots, the leather chaps, the empty holster on his hip.

Your heart drops into your gut. This man is no good. Probably some sort of criminal. Is he faking these injuries? It’s just you out here, all alone. It would be all too easy to overpower you and take whatever he wanted—object, flesh, or otherwise. But that theory is swiftly put to rest when you discover the source of his bleeding: a deep cut along his abdomen accompanied by several other bruises and lacerations, one of which is particularly gaping across the top of his thigh.

As soon as you lay eyes on his hurts, the old training takes over. A nurse’s training. War training. The kind of craft that no gentlelady should ever become involved with.

You rush into the kitchen, fetching cotton bandages, alcohol, a basin of water, scissors, and several rags. You quickly cut away his shirt with the shearing scissors, the drenched fabric parting like wet paper. Beneath his top, it is worse than you expected. There is also a deep bruise across his shoulder that you recognize immediately as a bullet graze and several other places where blood oozes from a fresh wound.

You take care of the gaping hurt on his abdomen first. This is the one trying hardest to take his life. New hot red blood drips out in a steady stream, slipping over crusted old blood. You imagine a sight like this would make any of those ladies you used to avoid at the parties sick. To be fair, it would probably make most decent human beings feel ill. But not you. You’ve seen far worse horrors than a simple slice.

As you work, memories flash before your eyes. Images of young boys, lungs filled with blood and bile, choking to death on it. Men screaming as the saw works its way through their bones for an amputation procedure. Despite the time that has passed, your fingers still shake as you disinfect the wound before cleaning it. Your body works in a familiar rhythm, so much so that you don’t even have to think before you move. Your mind slips away into memories…into the nightmares that you had lived.

Shiloh. April of 1862.

The air was so thick with smoke, breathing was a concerted effort. A young soldier from Maine, no more than seventeen years of age, had taken a bullet to his shoulder in nearly the same place as this man’s. He clutched your arm, grip surprisingly strong for his condition. He called you Delilah. Over and over he moaned that name. Not yours, of course. It must have been his sweetheart’s, or perhaps a sister. You would never find out. You held his hand in yours, held it until it went cold. Then, you moved onto the next cot.

As carefully as you can, you ease the denim down his right leg so that you can treat the wound on his thigh. You’d seen men in all manner of undress during your service to the Union. Nevertheless, to your surprise, you find heat flooding your face as your fingers dig into this stranger’s muscular thigh.

He tenses his leg despite being clearly unconscious. As you dab the alcohol along the wound to clean it, you notice something. Inked just above the gash, in a delicate script that seems unfitting to a gentleman so rough-looking, is a tattoo.

Amicus ad aras

A friend unto the altars, or a friend until the end, if your very limited knowledge of Latin serves you well. You glance up at his face as if his pained expression alone will provide some sort of explanation as to why a cowboy has a Latin tattoo on his thigh. Latin is not a language you associate with the working class. As a well-to-do lady, you had learned a small bit of it from classic literature and church. But even your understanding of the language is extremely basic.

Aside from that, and possibly even more interesting, what does this tattoo say about the strange man who now lies in your parlour? Someone loved him enough to mark him forever. Or he loved someone enough to mark himself for them.

By the time you finish dressing his injuries, the sun has sunk low behind the white clouds that blanket the snowy sky. Now that you’ve cleaned and bandaged him up, he seems more peaceful. His long, dark lashes fan against his cheeks. His chest rises and falls steadily.

You sit back on your heels. Your dress is ruined. Blood is splattered along the cream-colored muslin from your skirts all the way down to your fingertips.

When he shivers, you cover him with a quilt Mary had sewn this spring, before she died. His hand falls out from the edge, palm up, fingers curled as if waiting for something to be placed there.

You don’t take it. You can’t. You don’t want this man to die like the last wounded man who took your hand. It has been years since a man lay in this house who wasn’t stuffed into a pine box and then under the ground.

Even in your Death House, you pray for this man to live.

PART TWO

He wakes on the third night, just before dusk.

You’re carefully spooning peppermint tea between his cracked lips, just as you’ve been doing for the past three days. He’s refused to eat anything solid and can’t seem to keep down any soups or stews you try to feed him. You doubt he’ll remember any of it. Most people don’t realize that unconscious individuals can still vomit. You learned that quickly as a nurse.

But, this time, you nearly spill the hot peppermint tea all over him and yourself. His hand snaps to life, fingers encircling your wrist. You gasp. His fingers hold tightly, strong enough to bruise. His eyes blink open weakly, revealing two dark brown irises. His chest begins to rise faster, panic and confusion clearly setting in.

“Easy,” you say, softly as if calming a startled horse. “You’re alright. You’re safe here.”

The pulse in his throat flutters like a trapped butterfly. As he wakes more, a cycle of expressions flicker across his face—confusion, fear, relief, pain.

“Where?”

The word escapes gargled and rasped, barely audible.

“Kansas. About twenty miles outside of Kansas City,” you answer.

“H-how did I get…get here?” he mumbles, eyebrows knit.

You gulp and try to readjust your wrist in his grasp. He’s got you too tightly. All you can do is wince instead.

“I’d like to know that myself,” you reply. “You crawled up my walk, bleeding something awful in different places. I brought you inside and took care of the wounds for you.”

His eyes lock with yours. Again, emotions flash through him. Then, his eyes seem to grow rounder and glassy. Your gaze flicks to where he still holds your wrist hostage. He follows your lead and gasps. His fingers loosen and fall away. Wincing, you massage your now-sore wrist. He doesn’t need to apologize; you know he feels guilty. Not the first time a patient has grabbed you like that. At least he let go voluntarily. That doesn’t always happen.

He sinks back into the pillow, eyes going wild as they flit across the ceiling. You gingerly move to lift the quilt so you can check the dressing on his ribs. He flinches and then contorts in pain with a groan.

“I’m just checking the bandages on your ribs,” you say. “I’m sorry. I should have said that before I reached. May I?”

His eyes are wide with fear, but he nods slowly. You resume your work, carefully observing the area for infection. With him waking up, he’d triggered his wound. Blood is soaking through the previously clean bandage. You quickly remove it to ensure the stitches you had sewn are still in place. You can feel his gaze fixed on you, eyes unwavering. You gulp, feeling awkward under his stare.

“You should try to lie as still as you can or the stitches will tear,” you explain as you reach for cleaning supplies and a fresh bandage.

You had found it much easier to just set up a small hospital station beside the sofa while treating him. You had considered trying to move him into your bedroom, but decided against it for fear of destroying your own handiwork.

Your eyes flick up to see him still staring at you, mouth agape and eyebrows furrowed. You gulp again and wonder if he’s delirious. Again, it wouldn’t be the first time. You swallow a chuckle as a memory surfaces of a young soldier calling you an angel when he first woke up after being knocked out for four days straight.

“Do you remember your name?” you ask, hoping to distract his attention with a question.

“San. My name is Choi San.”

You nod, offering him a small smile.

“Good. That’s good. Your fever hasn’t burned your mind away.”

You work in silence for a few minutes before he speaks up again.

“What’s yours?”

You hesitate. The empty holster and deep wounds circle through your mind. You’re not sure you should tell him.

You settle for a first name only. It feels a bit strange, foreign even, in your mouth. Anyway, you haven’t introduced yourself to anyone else in months. Your name has been a thing hanging in the air, surrounding you but not needing to be voiced aloud.

To your surprise, he repeats it. His voice is low, ability to speak still muddled from the combination of his fading fever and exhaustion. But you hear clearly your name spilling from his lips, as if he were trying it on for size.

You look over at him, heart fluttering. He says it nicely. Despite yourself, you rather like the way it sounds in his voice. Before you can continue your conversation, he falls back asleep.

Unlike the previous days, his sleep is not fitful. He still sweats through a couple of rags on his forehead, but rests well other than that. You sit in the rocker in the corner. Jesse built it shortly after the family moved into the house. One side is slightly uneven, so when you rock it tilts to one side, but you don’t mind one bit.

As your patient rests, you admire the way the firelight dances across his cheekbones. It casts dark shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, his parted lips. Your stomach churns again, and you shake yourself. You hadn’t considered the fact that you might miss the privilege of looking at pretty people when you’d committed yourself to moving all the way out here into the wilderness. Especially pretty men.

Generally, throughout your life, you’ve never missed out on male company. It simply wasn’t something that you valued over your freedom to be as bad-mannered, socially removed, and self-sufficient as possible. But, of course, from time to time, you did wonder what it might be like.

You have no idea when you fell asleep, but you wake up to pale winter light streaming in through the windowpanes. Yawning, you rise to check on your patient. It has become your morning routine for the past several days. To your pleasure, his fever has finally broken. Though still slightly hot, most of the color has returned to his face.

While you prepare to redress his wounds, he stirs awake. You help him sit up against the sofa. You ignore the blush that heats your face when the quilt falls from his bare torso. His skin is impossibly smooth and warm against your palms. You sneak a gluttonous peek at the expanse of his back. Another round of butterflies in your gut.

He sits still, the picture of a perfect patient, as you attend to his injuries.

“How do you know how to do all of this?” he asks.

“I was a nurse. During the war.”

“How did a fine lady like you wind up in a place like that?”

You chuckle, shrugging.

“Dorothea Dix,” you respond simply. “I went to the Washington depot and volunteered myself.”

“I thought only older, unmarried women were allowed to do that.”

You share a sheepish look with him.

“I lied about my age. It was a hard sell, but a friend of mine helped me forge a letter of reference from our family physician. That got me in, and, then, when they saw I didn’t flinch at all the blood and guts, they never bothered to question it”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you volunteer?”

His question stops you in your tracks as you consider it.

“Well, I…I guess I just wanted to have some sort of purpose. As horrible as it sounds, being a nurse gave me something to do that mattered. Instead of sewing and dancing and flirting with boys at parties like all the other ladies my age, I was doing something that would mean something. I just…wanted to be more, I guess. If that doesn’t sound foolish.”

“No,” he says, his eyes soft and genuine as he looks at you. “Not at all. I know what you mean.”

You smile tightly. You honestly didn’t expect him to understand. No one at home ever seemed to.

“Plus,” you add with a smile, “it gave me the perfect way to get out of polite society. I didn’t have to pretend to like dancing or socializing or flirting with gentlemen who were less interesting than a rock.”

He laughs, wincing as the sensation tugs at his wounds. You gently place your fingers on his stomach, trying to keep the wound steady as he weathers the wave of pain.

“You shouldn’t make me laugh,” he says. “It hurts.”

“Sorry.”

The heat has crept all the way up your neck and face and into your ears now. Your heart is pounding in your chest, stomach turning in nervous circles. You honestly can’t remember ever feeling this way around a man before.

You move to the wound on his thigh. Absentmindedly, you allow your fingers to trace along the tattooed script on his skin.

“I think I’ve earned a turn to ask some questions,” you say. You look to him for consent, and he stares back expectantly. “Amicus ad aras. Friends until the end. What’s the story here?”

Sadness settles on his face, and he gulps. His eyes drop from yours to the tattoo.

“It’s to honor someone. My greatest friend,” he explains. “We grew up together in Boston-”

“You’re from Boston?” you interrupt, shocked.

He chuckles, nodding bashfully.

“I know it doesn’t look like it now. But I was raised to be a gentleman.”

It is hard to believe as you look at him. This man before you, who had been stabbed and shot and crawled up to your little Death House wrapped in the skin of a wolf. This man was once a member of the very circles you inhabited not a year ago.

“His name was Wooyoung,” he continues. “It started as a joke—the idea to get tattoos. It never would have been acceptable among the crowd we entertained in Boston. But, then, when we both got drafted for the Union…things were different. Now, Wooyoung said, it would be only appropriate that we get tattoos. He said that way, in case we die, we can still be friends until the end of time. I guess the altar turned out to be a sacrificial table instead of a Holy shrine.”

He lifts his gaze to the window. You can see the glint of tears in his eyes. You want to ask, to make sure you understand, if Wooyoung died. You don’t. Instead you redirect the conversation.

“How did you wind up out here? And I’d still like an explanation as to how you found your way to my house.”

He inhales sharply, as if resetting himself, and then turns back to you.

“After the war, I just needed out. I couldn’t stay there. I had…changed. I couldn’t wait for freedom after what I’d seen, what I’d…done.” Your heart aches at the guilt that washes over his expression. “I got roped into cattle herding pretty quickly. Out here, they snap up any strong young man who doesn’t know any better.”

Relief floods your veins. Not a criminal, just a simple cattle herder.

“Is it really dangerous?” you ask.

“It can be. Usually not so much for me. I work for a wealthy ranchowner, which means most of my job is to keep cattle on property and look after their health.”

“So, what happened here, then?” you gesture to his various wounds.

“The bull got out. A storm was coming, and we didn’t realize until he’d already run miles to the east. He was the owner’s only actively breeding bull, so he was needed to repopulate the herd next spring. I went out after him. The storm came early and dumped all this snow. I lost my way. Didn’t realize how far I’d gone until a bullet grazed my shoulder here. Somehow, I’d wandered onto rival ranch territory.”

He pauses, heaves a deep breath and shakes his head. It’s sickly amusing the way he tells it, like a neighbor commenting casually on the weather.

“I was outnumbered. Tried to run off, but my horse got spooked and threw me. They got me pretty good. I must’ve passed out from the pain. I don’t remember. Maybe they thought I was dead. I don’t know. They left me. I woke up covered in snow and in so much pain I could barely move. There was nothing for several miles. I thought I was as good as dead. Then I saw the smoke from your chimney. I don’t remember anything after that. Just the relief when I saw it.”

His gaze softens as he looks at you, eyes flicking between yours. Your chest tightens. You immediately banish the idea of leaning forward and kissing him as soon as it pops into your head.

“Ah! The coat,” you say suddenly as the question pops into your head.

“Huh?”

You stand, crossing the room to grab the animal skin coat. You hold it up to him.

“You were wearing this when I found you. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, that? I made it. When I realized I’d lost my way, I didn’t know how long I’d be stuck out in the storm. All I had was my gun, a knife, and some extra bullets. So, I shot a passing wolf, skinned it, and took its coat to stay warm.”

You nod. So it is a wolf’s coat. You no longer feel silly for mistaking him for a wounded animal.

“I almost shot you myself,” you say, smirking. “When you came stumbling up my path, I thought you were a wolf.”

He laughs, dimples forming beside the corners of his mouth. You can’t help but smile back. He looks even more handsome when he smiles.

“Well, I’m very grateful that you didn’t."

PART THREE

The days start to blend together. With San in your life, you’ve found a purpose to your otherwise boring schedule. Recuperating him has shocked you back into your nursing roots. After the war, you went back to being just a lady. Opportunities to be something more were scarce. Now, for the first time in a while, you feel rejuvenated.

Besides that, you actually genuinely enjoy his company. Of course there have been people in your life that you love, but, in all honesty, there are very few people on this earth who you actually like talking to.

With San, it feels surprisingly easy.

Mealtimes find you at the kitchen table. You set down bowls of potato soup or rabbit stew with cooked carrots and freshly baked bread. At first, he eats like a feral animal. You have to remind him to reintroduce the food slowly or he’ll be sick. He compliments your cooking, not that you can understand why, and always cleans his plate. When he holds out his cup for a refill, your fingers brush. Neither of you move away.

In between meals, you do your chores about the farm: looking after the animals, harvesting eggs and milk, making candles and soap, any repairs or sewing that needs to be done.

When not busy with those tasks, you tend to your patient. The first week, you allowed him to rest as you brought whatever he needed to his side. Then, you started to work on getting him up to walk around. You feared if you waited any longer, he would forget how. He complained and whined, but obeyed your instructions and constant nagging. You shuffled along the length of the parlour, his arm heavy across your shoulders. Your palms spread greedily across his muscular stomach and back to steady him. In a matter of days, he was able to move around by himself.

He cooperates beautifully when you clean, apply salve, and rebandage his wounds. Now that he’s more mobile, he sits in a chair while you dress his injuries. It’s much easier to reach them that way. You kneel between his legs to wrap the healing gashes on his abdomen and thigh. Each time, your skin heats and your stomach twists. It feels slightly indecent to position yourself between his legs, but it’s the most efficient way you’ve found to accomplish your work.

The cut on his thigh is melding into a pink scar, and the one on his stomach is now a thin red line jutting across his skin. The bruises are gone and other lacerations have healed. Sometimes, selfishly, you let your touch linger on his skin. It shames you, but you like the way it feels to touch him.

Within three weeks, he’s all but back to normal. One morning in December, you’re shocked to find him outside splitting kindling. He still favors the left side of his body as the right half heals. The axe rises and falls steadily, like a heartbeat. You watch from the doorway, a smile ghosting across your lips. A fleeting thought crosses your mind, wondering if this is what it might be like to have a husband. If so, perhaps it’s not that bad, after all.

That evening, he cooks for you. Six eggs, beaten, with a pinch of salt. He fries them crispy on the edges, informing you that’s the way his mother taught him. He slides the plate toward you with a shy grin. Not surprisingly, it’s delicious. He watches you eat every bite, chin propped on his fist. You laugh from embarrassment. He just smiles as though feeding you is even better than eating.

Later, when the fire burns low, he reads to you while you brush his hair. It has become a little tradition after dinner to sit together by the fire and read. Some nights you speak aloud, and other nights, he does.

You had started to brush his hair for him when he wasn’t able to lift his arms above his head. He’d caught his reflection in the mirror and complained about looking like a mess. He’d tried to do it himself, but you intervened before he broke the stitches that you had been looking after so tirelessly.

Both of you know very well by now that he is perfectly capable of brushing his own hair. But neither of you have admitted it out loud, and so you keep doing him this favor in silence. You wonder if he likes it as much as you do, or if he’s just lazy.

Either way, you don’t really care. The strands slide like silk through your fingers. When you drag your fingernails through the hairs at the nape of his neck, he releases a satisfied sigh. You bite your lip. You do it again, slower, and he shivers. Your gut flips when he leans his head back toward you, eyes closed.

It takes every ounce of strength you have not to lean forward and kiss him. You swallow the lump in your throat and push yourself away from him. Feigning exhaustion, you tell him you’re going to head up to bed. He stands abruptly and opens his mouth, as if to say something, but then closes it and nods. Before you turn away, you notice his jaw clenching.

That night, the terror comes.

You wake, startled, to the sound of San’s screams. Without even bothering to make yourself decent, you rush out of your bedroom in your thin nightgown and dash down the hall to the room that San had made his. The room that would have belonged to Jesse and Mary's baby.

Flinging open the door, you find him thrashing on the bed. In all honesty, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. You’re across the floor in a matter of seconds. You call his name as you reach out to restrain his flailing form.

“San! San, wake up! Wake up!”

Sweat is streaming down the side of his head, slipping along his neck and onto his bare chest, which is heaving uncontrollably. Just like before, your nurse training shocks into your system like muscle memory. You’d helped countless young men wake up from night terrors just like this one. You finally manage to grab hold of his shoulders. You shake him as hard as you can.

His eyes fly open, wide and glassy. It takes him a moment to focus on you, but once he does, his body visibly relaxes. His shoulders drop, and his head lolls back. His mouth trembles, still parted as he tries to catch his breath. Your palm instinctively slides around the back of his neck, fingers stretching to support his head.

“You’re okay,” you nod. “I have you. You’re safe.”

He heaves a deep breath, as if realizing that you’re telling the truth. When his gaze fixes on you, his eyes flick rapidly between yours. He stares so intensely that you find yourself lost for words, training be damned. You don’t know what to say, so you just look back at him. His vision drops down to your lips, just once, for a second, before he lunges forward.

His mouth is on yours. It’s not a romantic kiss. It’s not elegant or refined. It’s rough and sloppy and desperate. You freeze, body going stiff. Then, you lose all control of yourself. You’re kissing him back, head angling to reach him better. Your hands are gliding through the hair that you’d brushed so carefully just a few hours ago. His palms slide onto your waist, tugging you down onto him.

He spins you sideways, tangling his legs with yours. The hem of your nightgown starts to creep up your leg. His calloused fingers on your bare skin make you shiver. You arch into him, eyes closed, chests pressed together. A filthy moan slips out of you when he attaches his lips to your neck. He presses his hips up against you, and you gasp at the sensation of him.

“S-san,” you breathe, his name escaping like a desperate prayer.

He goes rigid.

“No,” he whispers, lips detaching from your skin. You gasp in protest, and your head jerks down to look at him. His eyebrows are knit, head shaking. “No,” he repeats. “Not like this.”

He moves away from you to sit on the other side of the bed. He drops his head into his hands and tugs his fingers through his hair. You sit up on your knees, admittedly a bit desperately, and reach for him.

“What? I don’t…I don’t understand.”

He gulps and then takes your hands in his. His thumb brushing along your knuckle.

“I can’t take you like this. Not in desperation. Not in impulse,” he explains. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your cheek. “I want to do it right. I want to love you the way you deserve.”

A shot of anger courses through you, and you consider arguing back. But, as you stare into his sweet, caring eyes, all that rage melts.

Over the last month, you’ve started to realize that maybe love and marriage and companionship…isn’t actually all that bad. You’ve realized that having someone there to complain to, to rely on, even to argue with, is nice. It terrifies and angers you to admit it, but perhaps you’ve learned that you don’t want to be as alone as you thought.

You trace the lines of his beautiful face. He survived. You have both survived in this Death House. Together. Without you, his corpse would have been hard as a rock and covered in mounds of snow by now, never to be found. Without him, you would still be rocking the days away, searching for projects to give yourself, for reasons to continue going each day. You hadn’t really noticed it until now, but the truth is that you need him just as much as he needs you.

And, so, instead of speaking, you just lean forward and kiss him again, softer this time. Then, you melt into the bed with him. He holds you tight, kissing the top of your head. For a long while, the room is comfortably quiet besides the cracking of the fireplace.

“I guess…” he says quietly. “Since I’m all healed up, now, I’ll be heading out after the snow melts.”

Your heart cracks, like a vase dropped and shattered into a hundred tiny pieces. You spin in his arms until you’re nose-to-nose.

“You’re leaving?” you ask, voice slightly shaking.

He smiles weakly, finger brushing your shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s right for me to stay here, eating all your food and taking up space. Besides, we’re not married, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think badly of you because you’re letting a pathetic leech stay with you. I don’t want to take advantage of the kindness you’ve already shown me.”

You prop yourself up on your arms on his chest and quirk an eyebrow.

“What about anything that I’ve said or done since we met has led you to believe that I give a damn what anyone thinks of me.”

He laughs, the sound warm and crisp. His palm slides onto your cheek fully. You welcome the warmth and lean into it. His smile turns sad, bitter. He sighs.

“You make it hard to leave,” he mutters.

“Then don’t.”

You say it simply because the matter at hand is simple to you. If he wants to stay and you want him to stay—and you very much want him to stay—then he should stay. And that’s that. He smirks and then maneuvers your head so he can kiss your forehead.

You melt back into him, tucked away in his side. He never answers, never tells you whether he’s going to stay or not. You don’t care. You’re used to getting your way, and you’re pretty sure you can convince him to stay with you if you just play the right cards. You know he wants to, anyway.

But, that’s a battle to fight tomorrow and the next day. For tonight, you just snuggle into his warmth and let sleep wash over you both.

EPILOGUE

The old dogwood tree has never come down.

Some mornings you still feel an aching sense of grief when you stare at it. But its leaves are big and green now, and it’s sprouted gorgeous white blossoms that drift by in strong breezes. Now it seems to whisper instead of groan, the three little headstones beneath it decorated with wildflowers. Spring has transformed the Death House. You would have never guessed at the beauty it was hiding underneath all that snow. It helps, too, of course, that San has put so much work into it.

You look up from your book just in time to watch him throw a stick for that little hound he’d brought home. He’d been gathering firewood in the forest behind the house when he stumbled upon the poor thing. When he came inside with it, you’d laughed and pointed out the similarities between this little dog and the first time you’d seen San. The dog, aptly named Wolf, has brought a sense of youth and joy into the house that you would never have expected.

San laughs, bright and loudly. His shirt is stuck to his back with sweat. He has filled out again, shoulders twice as broad as they were the winter he crawled half-dead to your door almost five years ago. His scars are completely healed, and his health seems to be in good condition.

Your belly is big enough now that you have to rest things on it instead of your lap. San pokes fun at you, but he’s always there when you have backaches or morning sickness. Seven months along now. Your baby would be a summer child. That feels right, feels like San.

Just as you’d suspected, you’ve gotten everything you wanted. San stayed and, after many months of teasing and begging and seducing, he’d finally loved you the way you deserved. You remember those silly girls at the rich-person parties passing along rumors that if a couple was truly in love, it only took one time to produce a baby. You thought they were full of it.

Maybe not.

Thinking of those girls always makes you laugh. What terror they would feel if they could see you now. Unmarried, living with a man, and pregnant with his child. Some folks still stare when you ride into town for supplies—your extended belly, no ring on any finger, sun-browned skin and unkempt hair. Let them talk. Twelve miles is a long way for gossip to travel, and by the time it reaches the Death House, it’ll be no louder than a whisper on the wind. Out here, the vows between you are silent. There’s no need for legal proceedings to reinforce them. I’ll mend what breaks, you’ll keep the fire going; we’ll bury what’s dead and plant what lives.

He walks behind you as you head inside. You always assure him you’re not going to spontaneously fall down, but he insists just in case. You pause just inside the doorway. A smile creeps across your face at the sight of the cradle in the corner. San had stripped it down to the wood your brother had used to make it. After complimenting Jesse's craftsmanship, San refinished it in a different color and gave it a new life.

“What are you smiling for?” San asks, hands sliding from your waist onto your belly. He props his chin on your shoulder. You lean on him.

“I’m glad it won’t be empty anymore,” you say quietly. “I always hated that it was so empty. I…” You gulp down the tears that are rising in your throat. “I’m happy we can give it life. That we can bring life into this home.”

San smiles, kissing your cheek and then nuzzling his nose against your skin.

“Me too. I think this house is ready for some new life.”

You return his grin, turning to the side and giving him a deep, long kiss. When you pull back, you whisper against his lips, “Well then, it’s a good thing we’re ready, too.”

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