♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: angel by massive attack + horace andy (6:20)
✰ pairing: rhett abbot x fem!reader
✰ cw: (no use of y/n & proofread) smut, enemies to lovers, swearing, bratty!reader, brat tamer!rhett, pure filth tbh, car sex, p in v sex, fingering, tit play, oral fixation if you squint, multiple orgasms (f!recieving), reader on top, save a horse ride a WHAAT?? sweetheart, baby, sweet girl and bunny nickname when referring to reader
✰ word count: 2.3k+
✰ summary: you and rhett are enemies and have been for years, after he lost his rodeo you find him brooding by his truck you poke fun but it soon grows hotter.
✰ a/n: apart of the maria hate club
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༺colour chart༻
reader ❀
rhett ✪
You and Rhett locked eyes from across the tournament, you were sitting alone - almost like you came just for him. But he knew better, he knew that he needed to focus in. He had to win this, but your eyes made him falter. He found himself staring back at you a few times, he hated you, sure. But god the way you smirked at him made him crumble.
After the bullride, Rhett was ushered of the field - he scored, but he scored low. Faulty bull, is all. He packed up his things, silently hoping that you conveniently weren't watching him eat shit just before. He placed his things into the backseat of his truck, when he heard gravel against boot.
"You took quite a tumble out there, cowboy." He practically heard the smirk in your fucking voice.
"What do you want." He said it more maliciously than he wanted, but you were mocking him at the wrong time. His eyes were locked in on his truck, as he sifted through his bag for something. You leaned against his truck,
"To poke a little fun, is all."
"Now's not a good time."
"It's always a good time, Rhetty."
"Don't call me that." He finally turned to face you, his arms crossing. You stepped closer to him, reciprocating the same body language - crossing your arms.
"Your attempts at intimidating me are as good as your bull-riding skills, so that's not sayin' much." You flicked back his hat as you spoke. He grabbed your arm,
"Don't fuckin' test me right now, sweetheart."
You faltered a bit, his grip strong."You were starin' at me from across the field, did I make you mess up?"
"In what world?"
"Do I make you nervous, Rhett?" You'd step closer.
"Quite the opposite."
"Mhm, I bet." A smirk was plastered onto your face. You'd pull your wrist away from him, "Careful now, cowboy."
You'd step away, moving to walk off - feeling Rhett's eyes on you. When he suddenly wrapped an arm around your waist, practically pulling you back to him. You let out a noise of surprise as he kissed you.
You soon melted into the kiss, Rhett pushing you up against the side of his truck. Rhett forced his tongue into your mouth, tilting your head up to accommodate for the height difference between the two of you. The kiss was all teeth, tongue and spit. Pent up frustration coming through.
Rhett broke the kiss before opening the door to his truck,
"Get in."
"What?--"
"I said get in, sweetheart. Need to fuck this out of my system."
You'd settle into the truck without another word, watching as Rhett crawled in after you - closing the door behind him from any prying eyes.
He'd pull you into his lap, hands moving up the sides of you - you giggled a bit, taking off his hat.
"Need to blow off some steam huh?"
"Yeah and put you in y'r goddamn place, got quite a mouth on ya."
"Want me to use that mouth?"
"I want you to shut the hell up." Rhett wove a hand into your hair, tugging you into another kiss. Teeth clashing against each other, as he made work on your jeans as you shrugged off your jacket.
His mouth moved down to your neck, as he shoved down your jeans to your thighs. He bit into your neck, running his tongue over the bites as a silent apology. His calloused hand dragged down your body, slipping underneath your panties - thick fingers finding your clit.
He pulled back from your neck, resting his head back against the head rest as he watched your reactions eagerly.
"There you go, bunny. Already so wet for me." He'd murmur, pushing two fingers into you with ease. He'd make work of you, moans spilling from your mouth as Rhett found that spot inside you almost immediately, fuck.
"Yeah, right there? That feel good, doesn't it?" He tilted his head at you, the teasing evident in his voice. You couldn't voice your pleasure, so you just nodded - moans leaving you.
Of course he'd be experienced, you wanted to feel his fingers inside you all the time if you could. Hips bucking against his hand as you rested your head against his shoulder, fucking his fingers into you as you practically rode his hand there in the backseat of his truck.
"I hate you." You let out a soft moan.
"Yeah?" His palm was now grinding into your clit, your hand immediately going to his shoulder to stabilise you. Your orgasm found you quickly, he placed a hand around your waist - coaching you through it. Moans spilling from your mouth, Rhett moved to cover your mouth.
"Shh, bunny.. you dont want people hearin' now?"
As you came down from your high, Rhett pulled you closer,
"You still got some more in ya?"
"Can't leave you pent up now can I, cowboy?" Your hands made quick work of his belt, hands shaking slightly from your previous orgasm.
Rhett's hands covered yours, "I've got it." He chuckled, unbuckling his belt - tossing it somewhere else in the car. Unbuttoning his jeans, pushing them down his thighs.
You'd notice the very obvious tent in his boxers, he was big. Bigger than you thought. You wondered if he'd let you suck it, atleast once - if this thing you were doing was going to continue.
"You still with me?"
"Mm-- mhm." You'd nod, fingers dragging down his abdomen to the bulge. You'd toy with the waistband, just for a few seconds - just to confirm that this is actually happening. Then your hand dipped beneath it, pulling down his boxers down to his knees.
His cock bobbed against his stomach, the tip already leaking pre-cum, a bit of it landing on his stomach. The tip swollen, red and angry.
"Condoms in the glovebox." Rhett murmured, a hand resuming it's spot on your waist as you turned around on his lap, your back now facing his front. Leaning over in the car into the front seat - adjusting yourself to open the glovebox, practically on your knees.
"You really need to clean out your glovebox." You mumbled fishing around it before finally finding a condom. You settled back into Rhett's lap, turning around so you were now facing him.
He took the condom from you, ripping it before placing it onto his hard cock.
"I didn't force you into my truck for you to complain more." A smirk on his face, as he placed his hands back to your hips.
"All good?"
You'd nod,
"Gonna have to give me words, baby. Or did I make you cum that hard?" Another tilt of his head.
"Yes-- god yes."
"There we go.." He'd muttered.
Rhett's hands moved to the button up shirt you were wearing. You'd swat his hands away.
"C'mon, not even a peak?"
"Gonna have to pay extra for that."
He'd simply pout,
"I bring you into my very comfortable truck and I let you cum on my hand and you wont even let me have the pleasure of seeing your tits? Plain criminal." Rhett placed a hand to your cheek, his thumb dragging down your bottom lip. "C'mon, sweetheart... I'll make you feel so good."
You let out a breath at his promise, "Fine. I'll hold you to that though."
Then, a smirk,
"Thank you," Rhett placed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, hands working at the buttons on your shirt - pushing it off your shoulders with your help. His hands expertly unclasping your bra, slowly pulling the straps off you. Placing kisses to your neck and collarbone as a thanks.
He looked down at you,
"Fuckin' gorgeous.." He'd mutter more to himself, cupping one of your tits - a cold thumb slipping over the perked nipple, earning a soft whimper from you.
He took your nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling against the hard skin. You placed a hand into his hair, egging him on - pulling at the soft curls.
You could only imagine how his tongue would work between your thighs, you could only imagine a lot of things with his man who previously hated you sitting in front of you now sucking on your tits.
Rhett pulled back a string of saliva connecting his mouth to your tit, he looked up at you - a lopsided smirk on his face.
"If I don't fuck you now, I am going to lose my mind." He placed his hands to your ass, pushing you further onto his lap. The tip of his cock grazing your soaked core, learning a groan from the both of you.
"That makes two of us." You leaned forward, capturing him in another heated kiss as his strong hands directed your hips for you to sit down directly on his cock, feeling unbelievable full. The moan you let out soaked up by the kiss as he smirked against your lips.
"Th're you go, bunny.. s' good, doing s' good just for me." Rhett muttered against your lips. You pulled back a bit, looking down at where you two were connected, Christ he was big.
"You alright, baby?" Rhett placed a hand under your chin, tilting your head up to meet his eyes. He looked concerned, not a look you commonly saw on Rhett Abbott's face.
"Y-Yeah.. you're just, it's big."
You wanted to smack that egotistical smirk off his face,
"Big, yeah?" He tilted his head.
"Don't be a dick."
"Well you're riding mine." You felt him twitch inside of you, earning a small whimper from you.
You took a moment to collect yourself, get used to the sensation of your enemy's cock buried to the hilt inside of you.
"O--Okay, I'm gonna start moving."
"Be my guest." Rhett leaned back as you started to move your hips, moving forward and back first - building the pace. "Jesus-- you're so tight.." He looked down to where the two of you were connected.
You started to move your hips upward, Rhett's hands moving to wrap around your waist - hoisting him up for the two of you to be chest to chest, his own hips bucking up now meeting your rhythm.
"I hate you." You said between high pitched moans.
"Hate you too, baby." You felt that sensation deep in your belly again, overstimulating yet soothing. Rhett knew that too by the way you were clenching around him.
"Y' close, sweet girl?" His hand snaked between your two hot bodies to have his thick fingers work in circles against your clit. You could only nod with this new pleasure, head resting against his shoulder. His other hand moved to weave into your hair, tugging gently as he tsked.
"Nah, bunny. Look at me when you cum, I wanna see it." Because of course he did, he wanted to see the girl that he argued with for years cum like it was her first time, because of him. Just needed that ego booster.
Your mind was completely turned off at this point, your thoughts just filled to the brim with Rhett - in more ways than one. The way his dark blue eyes watched you, his thick fingers working against your swollen nub, and his cock pushing into you and filling you ever so deeper. Your mouth open as moans and whimpers poured out, if people didn't hear you before. They sure as hell did now.
"C'mon, cum on my cock." That deep southern growl in his voice was the last thing you needed to tip over the edge, hands gripping as his chest as you came around him, earning a groan from him as you tightened.
As you came down from your high, Rhetts hands caught you from falling into him, then you realised Rhett still hadn't cum yet. That fire still in his eyes, your cunt was overstimulated but a front row seat to Rhett Abbott being ruined by your pussy was too good to give up.
He tightened his hands around your waist, switching your position for you to be laying down on the carseat. Rhett overtop of you as he fucked his cock into you, his face planted in his neck - peppering kisses there.
You whined from overstimulation. "I know-- god, I know baby.. just.. give me a minute, okay?" His words muffled by your neck, you then weaved your fingers into his hair - deciding to give him a taste of his own medicine. Pulling his head back as you looked into his eyes, you saw the smallest amount of drool in the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide as his hips didn't let up, in fact fucking into you faster - but his hips soon faltered, with one last thrust he came into the condom.
You both just laid there for a moment, catching your breaths as realisation set in. Rhett pulled back, looking down at you - chest heaving. You simply looked up at him, your hand still in his hair. You pushed yourself with the remaining energy you still had, pulling him into a kiss by his hair. This one wasn't heated like the others. It was soft, promising. Promising that there was something more to this.
You then pulled back, smiling against his lips.
"What?" A breathless chuckle left him.
"I actually came over to your truck before to tell you that the guy who placed above you got disqualified."
"..What?--" His eyes widened.
"You're going to the semi-finals, Abbott."
"Why didn't you tell me?" An evident smile on his face.
"Because I wouldn't have gotten fucked if I did."
A beat of silence, he'd laugh - placing his head on your shoulder.
"I hate you."
"I hate you too."
summary: when you stumble upon the abbott ranch, you know of only two things: your name and an empty stomach.
word count: 3.7k
tags: gn!vampire!reader/werewolf!rhett; descriptions of blood/gore/injuries; animal death; pre-relationship (slow burn, pining).
a/n: here it is - the prequel to love at first bite! this au is very quickly becoming its own series (aka i have many drafts in progress) so strap in.
continue to the next chapter? (1 of ?)
> MASTERLIST. > NEXT.
If you don’t end up dying from exhaustion, the woods might just swallow you whole.
You don’t know how long you’ve been running. It could be hours or days and you’d be none the wiser; your feet move without thought, aching and blistered and bleeding on the soles. Fallen branches and thorned bushes have battered you from head to toe, scratching you up all over. For the duration of your frantic expedition, your vision continually fades in and out, speckled black around the edges — a growing vignette. Blood has crusted over against your skin in a long trail of burgundy that streaks down to your ankles like the swift swipe of a paintbrush.
Eventually — after all that running — you break through the dense treeline to discover lights scattered across the distant horizon. A sigh of relief escapes you. Finally, civilization. Help. Someone that can save you. Someone to free you from this aching pain in your body, the cold creeping in that feels too much like death.
You’re so distracted by the sight of those distant lights that you don’t notice the thick tree roots sticking out of the ground. They snag your foot, and your hands shoot out to catch yourself to no avail; with a startled cry, your forehead knocks against a flat stone wedged in the grass. You promptly lose consciousness, landing face-first in the tall grass.
. . .
Something tickles the back of your neck. Heavy, warm breaths dampen the skin. Memories flash behind your eyes — hands snatching you up in the dark, a snarl, teeth sinking into your neck, hot breath, and a wet mouth.
You roll away fast, tumbling through the grass. When you open your eyes, you wince — the sun shines far too brightly, burning your retinas as you try in vain to adjust to the light. Your hand hovers over your eyes to shield you, then, as you take account of your surroundings.
Behind you, there’s the treeline you came running from. Ahead, there’s a field of yellow grass as far as the eye can see. Further away, you can make out the shape of sheds and a house — a farm, you presume, given that, when you glance to your right, you discover that the thing breathing on your neck was just a cow. It languidly munches on the grass, paying you no mind now that it has determined you’re not to be eaten.
You pull your hand away from your eyes, squinting in the blinding sunlight. There’s a bit of dried blood on your forehead; you prod at the ache, wincing from the tenderness. When you glance down, you see the stone in the grass and frown. That explains some things.
With weak legs, you push yourself onto your aching feet. There’s a dip in the field that indicates you’re on a hill. You start to walk again, feeling eerily like a newborn. Every other step has you stumbling and falling to your knees, muscles weary from exhaustion. The further you go, the more tired you become; eventually, your weak legs can’t carry you any further. You collapse in the grass again like a helpless, wounded animal. The combination of the heat and your aching muscles causes you to briefly drift into a nap.
Only moments later, a voice rouses you awake.
“Hey. What are you doing?”
You jolt, the grass rustling as you slowly push yourself halfway up, struggling even to do that. Once you’re awake and staring up at the man before you — an older gentleman, bearded and sitting atop a horse — the man’s eyes go wide.
There’s another, younger man beside him, also on a horse. His mouth drops open.
“Shit,” the younger man mutters.
For a second, you’re not sure why they give you such a strange look. Then you glance down and remember that you’re covered in your own blood — your previously white T-shirt is soaked and splattered all over with it, and your jeans are no better.
Your hand shields your eyes from the sun as you look between the men, struggling to find your voice. Eventually, in a raspy, dehydrated voice, you settle on: “I could use a hand.”
Your head spins. You start to slump over in the grass again.
Startled, the men exchange a look. The older man seems more hesitant than the younger one, who doesn’t waste another minute. He hops down from his horse and jogs over to you with his hand out for you to take. You stare at it — not for a lack of gratitude, but because you’re afraid your legs won’t work when you try to stand.
“It’s okay,” the young man says, seeming to register your hesitation as distrust. “I don’t bite. Are you hurting?”
Slowly, you nod, swallowing what little spit you have in your mouth. “My legs, they’re… It’s hard to walk.”
With a nod of his own, the man holds his hands out before warning you of his every touch. “Okay, that’s alright. Gonna pick you up and we’ll get you on my horse, okay?”
You accept his help. As the cowboy scoops you up in his arms, your eyes land on the older man, who has now hopped off his horse to help you and the younger man. They have to put you back on your feet so you can mount the horse, holding you up and guiding your every step.
“Careful, now,” the older man says, kneeling down for you to use his knee as a step up to the horse. Rhett steadies you with a hand on the small of your back — he slides it up a split second later, as if trying to maintain a level of decency. After a bit of struggling, you successfully make it onto the horse, feeling somewhat awkward as the men stand beside the mare to talk, their voices coming quick and urgent.
“Listen, Rhett — take it easy on the ride back. Don’t jostle ‘em too much — that’s a whole lotta blood. I’ll go ahead and tell your mother and Perry. I don’t want Amy seein’ this,” the older man explains. It almost feels embarrassing to be talked about like this — as if you’re a sick dog that’s about to be taken out back and put out of its misery — but your exhaustion is stronger than any other emotion at the moment.
The younger man — Rhett, apparently — nods in understanding. The men mount their horses; Rhett settles in behind you while the older man (his father, if you’ve gathered correctly) rides away.
“Alright,” Rhett murmurs behind you, taking hold of the reins. Your senses feel off kilter, made obvious when his arms wind around your body. Every brush of skin and fabric feels uncomfortably sensitive; you can clearly smell the salt of his sweat, plus something animal-like — he must have a dog at home, you think. For some reason, it makes your mouth water.
In any case, you’re thankful that Rhett can’t see your wrinkled nose as the sensations take over you. As if blistered feet and the overpowering sunlight aren’t bad enough, things just have to get worse.
“You got a name?” Rhett finally asks after he gets his horse going; she neighs and trots down the same path that his father took.
With a touch of trepidation, you offer your name. At least you can remember that.
“Rhett Abbott,” he says, replying with his own. “You just hang on and we’ll set you right.”
You don’t reply. You feel tired again, closing your eyes and nodding off while he rides away with you.
. . .
“You don’t think it’s strange?”
Rhett is in a trance, too busy staring at your sleeping form on the couch to hear his brother’s question. His mother, Cecilia, was in a fit when he and his father brought you in the day before; she had a bath ready for you, practically dragging you upstairs to clean up before little Amy could get nosy and see your harrowing appearance. It probably isn’t best for his ten-year-old niece to witness this kind of thing.
It took quite a while to get anything out of you after that: according to you, you don’t remember much from before you ended up in the Abbott’s field. Your memory is fuzzy and scattered at best. Even a visit to the local clinic couldn’t determine what happened to you besides a concussion from the fall you took; for now, the family has agreed to keep an eye on you while you (hopefully) regain your memories and motor skills, which are equally dismal. When you walk, you’re weak on your legs, as if you’re still learning how to use them. Even holding up a fork during breakfast this morning was difficult for you. It reminds Rhett of when Amy was two, and his brother was constantly having to make sure his daughter was gripping her plastic spoon correctly.
You’re wearing fresh clothes now — a plaid button-up and a pair of old jeans, courtesy of Cecilia’s rummaging. You look strangely at peace now that you’re passed out on the Abbott’s couch; you’ve been laying there all morning. It’s nearly four in the afternoon now. You’ve only been woken once by Cecilia so she could get some food in you. For his part, Rhett can at least attest to the comfort of the couch — he’s crashed on it many nights after trips to the bar. It’s convenient when he can’t manage the stairs.
When Rhett finally turns to glance at Perry, barely having acknowledged his brother’s earlier question, Perry just raises his brows, gesturing to you and trying again.
“They’re still asleep. Thought they’d have woken up by now,” Perry mutters, keeping his voice low just in case you hear their conversation.
“They’re just tired,” Rhett shrugs, sipping a beer and letting his eyes fall upon you again. Your cheek is smushed against the couch cushion, and your arm dangles over the side. The dog keeps coming up to sniff and lick your hand, but you still haven’t moved. It’s admittedly a little concerning in Rhett’s head; you sleep like the dead.
The older brother runs a hand down his face, shaking his head. “It’s weird. I heard ‘em up and walking around all last night. Floorboards creakin’. It scared Amy.”
“Like hell it did,” Rhett snorts, narrowing his eyes. “Amy’s not scared of anything, you fuckin’ liar. You’re the one who’s actin’ all jumpy.”
Perry looks sheepish, but quickly turns the conversation back to you. “It’s not just me. Mom and dad are uneasy, too. We’ve got no clue where they came from, who they are, what they were up to — you’re blind if you don’t see there’s somethin’ up with that kid.”
“They were in the woods, Perry,” Rhett huffs, quick to defend you. “Blood all over ‘em. If they don’t remember what happened, it’s for a good reason. Who knows what kind of fucked up shit they’ve been through?”
“Or they’re lying.” Perry’s suggestion drops between them like a ticking time bomb. “Don’t tell me you haven’t considered that possibility.”
Across the table, Rhett’s jaw clenches. He’d be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind — there’s certainly something off with you that he just can’t place. There’s a strange smell in the air that he’s sure his brother and father have caught a whiff of, too.
Even so, Rhett doesn’t believe that you’d lie — especially not for nefarious purposes. Whatever the case may be, he’s taking your side until it bites him in the ass.
. . .
Despite your strange crash-landing to the Abbott Ranch, you’ve been a gracious guest.
You’ve taken up a bed on the couch. You fold the blankets up nice and neat every morning (or afternoon, more like, since you tend to sleep in late). You help Cecilia in the kitchen and do the dishes after. You’re clean and polite, albeit a bit quiet, but you’ve become a welcoming figure in the week since the family took you in. The Abbott’s are afraid to leave you alone with Amy — she’s too young to be left at the house with a stranger — but you’re very accommodating to her childish whims, playing with her and keeping her secrets. Rhett keeps an eye on you; he thinks it’s sweet that you get along with his niece so well.
Cecilia thinks you’re much like her husband, Royal; she tells you the story of how he, too, miraculously wound up on her family’s farm without any memory of his previous life. Royal seems a bit uncomfortable to hear the story retold to you, but it fascinates you. You figure that must be why they’re so accommodating. Even with Royal’s apparent discomfort towards your presence, he doesn’t see you as a threat — at least, you hope not — and he’s been alright with your staying so long as you clean up after yourself and don’t cause any trouble.
After dinner one night, you sit outside on the porch steps. The Abbott family — aside from Rhett, who missed dinner — are heading to bed by now, but you’re still in the habit of staying up late and sleeping past noon. You twiddle your thumbs, nursing a beer between your palms. Your gaze wanders to the sky, mapping every star under the dark sheet of night.
Admittedly, your own circumstances have been weighing on you greatly; you keep having terrible nightmares that leave you in a cold sweat. They feel disturbingly real, like memories of something you’ve forgotten or have chosen to hide away. Every time you try to grasp ahold of the memories from before, you’re left with a splitting headache and a pit in your stomach.
The more the days wear on, the more you wonder if you’re overstaying your welcome. You’re terribly afraid to take advantage of the Abbott’s kindness; despite Cecilia’s story about her own husband’s strange beginning, you don’t want to become a deadweight in their lives. On top of everything, you’re starting to feel sick with a hunger you can’t keep down, no matter how much you eat.
A pair of faded yellow-white headlights swing past your vision. When your gaze drops from the midnight sky, you find Rhett pulling up in his truck. He parks crookedly out front before killing the engine; the man stumbles out of the driver’s seat, clearly inebriated. You don’t say anything, watching him walk an uneven path towards the porch.
He pauses abruptly a few feet away from you. “Oh,” he mutters, eyes widening. He must not have seen you hunched on the steps.
You lift your half-empty beer in greeting. “Hey.” A beat of silence passes before you gesture vaguely behind you. “We fixed a plate for you.”
Rhett watches you, nodding slowly. “Right. Thanks.” He lingers in front of you for a moment, swaying on his feet. He looks like he’s trying to muster up the courage to get any closer to you. “Mind if I…?”
When Rhett gestures to the spot beside you, you nod, brows furrowed. It’s his home, after all. He shouldn’t feel like he has to invite himself, but you don’t verbally question his actions.
The cowboy steps closer before heavily dropping down beside you. His shoulder bumps against yours; the touch startles you, mostly because you weren’t expecting him to actually sit so close. It’s not unwelcome, though, so you don’t think to comment on it.
Rhett doesn’t say anything for a while. You sip your beer in anxious silence, trying to ignore the nauseating scent of alcohol clinging to his clothing. Strangely enough, your stomach burns with hunger when you smell his sweat, too, and the taste of salt on the air. This hunger is starting to distress you more by the hour.
“I’ve been trying to figure you out,” Rhett eventually says. His voice makes you jump.
You turn your head, staring at him dumbly. “Huh?”
He shrugs, slowly leaning back on his elbows. “I don’t mean nothin’ by it. You’re just a bit of an oddball. No offense.” He cracks a small smile and angles himself to look up at the stars, as you were moments ago. Before you can question his train of thought, Rhett starts up again.
“You remind me of Rebecca.” To save you from inquiring about the name, Rhett explains: “Perry’s wife. Former wife. Amy’s mom. She went missing ‘bout a year ago, now. Good woman.”
Rhett drags a hand down his face, scratching at the stubble clinging to this jawline.
“The wound is still pretty fresh for ‘em all. They’d never admit it, not one of ‘em, but I think they’re all still hoping she’ll just wander through the door one of these days. Just like you. Just like my dad.”
You stare at Rhett for a long while, searching his expression. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking.
“What about you? Were you close with her?” You wonder.
Rhett’s jaw tightens. He licks his lips, staring pointedly at the twinkling stars. “Sort of, yeah. We were friends. She didn’t think I was an idiot like everybody else does, so that was nice.” He swallows, then straightens up, rubbing his hands on his legs, then his exposed arms. “Fuckin’ cold out. You need a blanket?” He clearly doesn’t want to linger on the subject of his sister-in-law any longer.
You shake your head. You hadn’t even realized it was cold out.
Rhett hums, glancing your way. He meets your eyes, and for a second, this whole moment feels far too intimate. His gaze unabashedly lingers on your face before he suddenly reaches up, brushing his thumb over your cheek.
“Where the hell’d you come from?” His question comes out as a low, reverent murmur. “It’s like you just fell outta the sky.”
You blink, baffled by his strange behavior and touchiness. Then, as quickly as it occurred, Rhett clears his throat and stands, towering over you on the porch steps.
“Full moon soon,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. He gestures vaguely to the house. “Headin’ in yet?”
You stare up at him, still trying to make sense of it all. “No,” you mutter confusedly. “Staying out.”
The man nods, and his cowboy boots thud against the creaky steps. “Don’t be out too late,” he warns, not looking over his shoulder as he reaches the door. “Gets the whole house jumpy when you’re walkin’ ‘round at night.”
The front door shuts behind him. The silence blankets around you like a heavy sheet of snow.
Unable to sit still after that odd conversation, you abandon your beer bottle to wander around the ranch. It’s all you can do to ease your mind; even then, you know you’ll be up for hours, as you always are, burning new tracks into the grass with every step you take.
Somewhere amidst all your aimless wandering and pondering over your place amongst the Abbott family, you hear twigs snapping. A rustle of grass. Feet skittering across dirt.
For whatever reason, your hunger makes itself known once more. This time, though, there’s no resisting the way your mouth waters. At dinner earlier, you ate more than your fill — enough to make your stomach feel tight, enough that Perry joked that you must be going through a growth spurt like Amy — but the empty ache in your stomach is still there.
This is a different sort of appetite. Even in that blank space of your life before you stumbled upon the Abbott Ranch, you’re absolutely certain you’ve never been so hungry in your life.
Something rustles again. Despite your better judgement, you venture further into the darkness, your own (borrowed) boots crunching over dirt and dry grass. You smell something delicious the further you walk — there’s a drumming in the distance, too, like a kickdrum beating into a taut rhythm. Your curiosity gets the better of you. You walk and walk and walk, following your scattered senses until suddenly you’re dropping onto your hands and knees, crawling through the grass like a cat on the prowl.
You don’t even think about whatever the fuck is happening to you right now — your body has a mind of its own, following a primal sense that you’ve never before given into. Every smell, every touch, every sound is more than it’s ever been. It’s like someone reached inside you, turned a dial, and notched your senses up to ten.
Suddenly, you freeze. You crouch down as low as you can go. Your pupils are blown wide in the dark, taking in your surroundings. The grass sways to your left; you wait and watch. You’re salivating, so much so that it dribbles down your chin and sways with every breath you take.
Another movement, closer now. The kickdrum beats faster, faster, faster—
You pounce.
Something wriggles between your hands, scratching and shrieking. Little claws drag lines into your palm, leaving a vaguely painful sting. You don’t acknowledge it; you barely feel the injury. Instead, you focus on how your teeth tear into something soft and juicy, so tender it falls apart in your hands; a warm, tangy flavor fills your mouth, and you unintentionally moan. Finally, finally, the starvation that has left you weak and weary for the past week is being satisfied. You indulge until there’s nothing left to take, and even then, you start licking the sweet nectar that spilled down from your hands and to your elbows. An animalistic greed overwhelms you, urging you to devour every last drop.
Once you’ve finally gotten a grip on your senses, you slump down in the grass, heaving in every breath. You didn’t realize you had devoured whatever-that-was so hungrily that you didn’t stop for oxygen even once. With a sigh, you roll onto your side, regaining control.
Your heart stops.
The small, barely recognizable body of a mouse is wholly deformed beside you. You back away in horror, gasping when you see the little bits of fur and bone ravaged in the grass. When you lick your teeth, you find a small chunk of flesh. It doesn’t take an idiot to realize what you’ve just done. You turn away from the rodent’s mutilated body, hunching over in the grass, trying not to vomit. You touch your fingers to your lips, disturbed to find that your canines feel unnaturally long and pointed. The smell of the mouse is still lodged in your nostrils, the taste of it still sliding around on your tongue.
Young!Rhett Abbott who’s been your best friend since elementary school. You two are attached at the hip. He always offers his jackets and walks you to class. He has a strong dislike for when classmates flirt with you, but your happiness is all that matters to him. Even if it hurts him in the process. He’s at your beck and call, and a comforting shadow through the halls of high school.
You two always hang out. At your house. At his. He accompanies you on errands. You accompany him on farm chores. You sit together in class, either side by side or behind each other. He helps with math. You help with english.
Rhett may or may not have a crush on you. Whether it’s big or small, you can’t tell. Mostly because you’re oblivious to your best friend that you just think is the sweetest.
Rhett offers to drive you around town and always pays with crumpled dollar bills if you two stop to eat. He’ll drive you until his gas is low and then some. He’ll drive you until the sun is set and the Dippers can be seen on the horizon. He always walks you to the door when he drops you off back home, and doesn’t drive off until he knows you’ve locked the front door.
Rhett Abbott who’s been your best friend through it all. You two are still attached at the hip. You’re each other’s half. Where one of you is, the other isn’t that far behind. He gives you his jackets when he think you look cold and uses the excuse that you need to hold it for him if you say you’re fine. He walks you everywhere he can. The bank. The store. Hell, even to the post office. Your happiness is still important to him and he supports whatever you decide to do in life. Even if he hates the guys you talk to. Rhett has a bad time masking his disdain, which often leaves him glaring over your shoulder at the guy. He’s a shadow that looms over your shoulder. It makes others uncomfortable, but you don’t even think twice.
You two still hangout all the time. At the ranch. At your house. On errands or during chores. Rhett carries any packages or groceries you have. You help him with ranch chores, which usually ends with you handing him tools cause he’s insists you just need to “sit there and look pretty, sweetheart.”
This Rhett. Your Rhett, still. Is just older now, and bolder. He flirts with you all the time. He still opens doors for you, drives you around, and walks you up to your door after your guys’ late night drives. But now he calls you petnames with a low voice, stands too close, and lets his hands linger. They linger on your lower back and upper arms mostly. He lets his hands brush yours and gets away with resting a “casual” hand on your thigh while he drives. It’s closer to your knee though because he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable.
Rhett still drives you around. Now, it’s not an offer, but it’s not a demand either. Sometimes he just shows up at your doorstep and there’s no way you’re saying no to him. Especially when Rhett takes his hat off and holds it in both hands in front of him. It reminds you of that lanky grade school boy who you could never say no to. Truth be told, you still wouldn’t be able to say no to him. He still pays for dinner with crumbled dollar bills, but instead of pulling them from his pocket, they come from his worn, leather wallet. Rhett still drives around until the Dippers can be seen on the horizon. But now without school calling for early bedtimes, sometimes you and Rhett stay out until the sun starts to rise again. Sometime throughout the night, you’d end up in a field with him somewhere looking at the stars and pointing out constellations.
Rhett hears you talk about the stars. He’s listening, he really is. But he’s too busy looking at you to see where you’re pointing. He can see the constellations in your eyes well enough anyway.
smut Rhett abbott♡ An arranged marriage with Rhett. Reader like Rhett but Rhett doesn't her you. Until one night, everything changes when someone try to flirts with Reader at Rodeo. Thank you!!!
Oh boy…let’s do it.
Summary: To save his family’s ranch, Rhett agrees to marry a girl from a rich family. Unfortunately for you, Rhett has a low opinion of your character, he thinks of you as a spoiled brat who gets everything you want and all you have to do is say please.
But, as time passes, Rhett beings to see you in a different light. And a marriage that was meant to be temporary begins to have the potential to last much longer then expected.
Warnings: Very very small hint of Angst, jealousy from both reader and Rhett, fluff, eventual happy ending, SMUT, porn with plot, porn with feelings, save a horse…ride that cowboy, my first attempt at actual smut so sorry if it’s ass. WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT YOU FILTHY ANIMALS(affectionately)
This is NOT proof read at all…sorry
18+ THIS STORY CONTAINS SUGESTIVE MATERIAL you are responsible for your own media consumption
So sorry if this is not what you envisioned but I hope you enjoy!
——————
Rhett hated the idea from the start. Cecelia had come to you begging you for help, saying that her land was about to be taken from her family by the Tillersons. And they did not have enough money to stop it. Everyone in Wabang knows the Abbotts, everyone knows exactly who each member of the family is. But you know that each and every one of them are good people, and that Cece is a saint. The second she came to you, you hung on every single word that came out of her mouth. The marriage was her idea, she said it was the only way your family would agree to send them that much money.
It all made you head spin, you’d do anything to help the Abbotts out…but marrying Rhett, however temporary it may be, was not a decision you were expecting to make. Cece could see how hesitant you were, and she told you she’d let you think it over.
Theres not secret that Rhett Abbott hated your guts, through you never fully understood why, you had an idea. Your family was more than well off, never knowing the struggles that most families like the Abbotts have to endure.
Most people thought they already knew all about you, rich little girl who gets whatever she wants and doesn’t have to work to earn anything. It made your skin crawl, this preconceived notion of your character has lead you to spend most of your life in isolation. Which ended up fueling the people’s beliefs of you being a high and mighty asshole. More than likely, Rhett thought the exact same thing about you. But regardless of what he felt or how low his opinion of you may be, there was always…something, about the cowboy. Most people in town saw him as a dirt bag. A drunk, a brawler, a cowboy who was up to no good.
Over the years, you have become a bit of a watcher, an onlooker. And throughout your time as a watcher, you have seen that Rhett really isn’t anything like that. He’s actually a big softy that just wants to be wanted and not just needed. You have seen Rhett help random people around town, an old guy who is struggling to load up his haul from the hardware store, his niece Amy who is too tired to keep walking so he gives her a piggyback ride, he’s even helped Joy stuff a Christmas tree that was never going to fit into her vehicle.
You have always had a small crush on the cowboy, gone to all his rodeos, silently and sometimes very loudly cheering him on from the sidelines. When he loses, you want to cheer him up, but then you think about how horrifically awkward that could be.
In the end, you were always going to tell Cece yes.
———
“Absolutely fuckin not!” Rhett stands up straight, once leaning on the counter of his family home’s kitchen, now he’s towering over everyone in the room. “Rhett sit your skinny ass down.” Royal all but hisses at his youngest son. You sit next to Cecilia at the dinner table, trying to not move around too much and draw attention towards yourself as tensions rise. Rhett yanks the chair beside you out from under the table and plops down.
You can feel the heat radiating off of him as you shrink into yourself in an attempt to make yourself impossibly smaller.
“Look I know this is not ideal-“No mom it’s not fucking ideal!” Rhett is practically fuming as he sits back in the chair and crosses his arms, and you don’t blame him for being upset. This is not a situation you would’ve ever wanted to put yourself or anyone else in. But right now it was the only way.
“Rhett, I’m really trying to be calm with you right now.” Cece starts off, as she leans forwards in her chair to level her son with ‘the look’. The one that says ‘keep acting up and I’ll smack the shit out of you’, it’s enough to make him stay quiet. “This isn’t something either of you want, but we need this.” Cecilia says, as the desperation she feels floods her voice. “We need the money Rhett and this is the surest way to get it. We don’t know how long Wane will drag this all out, and court isn’t exactly cheep.”
———
So here you are couple of months later after Rhett and you eloped, not wanting to draw too much attention and definitely not wanting to go all out with a wedding for a marriage that wasn’t meant to last more then a year or two.
Your parents were surprisingly very supportive, your mom was just happy you finally got married…while your dad was upset to have to let you go ‘so soon’. You had sat your parents down and spun them the story you and Cece put together. You told them you and Rhett had been courting in secret for years and recently decided to get married, they were pretty upset that they didn’t get to meet Rhett beforehand, but they warmed up to it.
You and Rhett kept up the appearance of a reserved couple who didn’t like to show off and kept more to themselves. At family gatherings, you and him had to really crank up the charm. Something the two of you rehearsed.
Your dad and Royal go along better than you could’ve ever imagined, they were practically bffs after the first cook out. Bonding over the ranch and other shared hobbies. You and Cece had spent some time giggling about it. About 4 months into the fake marriage, you really began to feel more at home and alive then you had in months. The only thing keeping you from slipping away into this fantasy was the tension between you and Rhett.
You barely spoke to one another, Rhett had moved into your small home on your parents land, he slept on the couch for about one month before you practically bullied him into at least sleeping in the spare room. He often woke up early to work out on the ranch and came home late, so you never had any time to speak to him. Eventually, you made sure to wake up early enough to make sure he ate something other than toast before leaving.
The first morning Rhett stumbled into the kitchen half awake with pj pants on, he nearly had a heart attack.
“Oh fuck me!” Rhett shouts out and you spin around fast enough to make you dizzy. “Shit, I’m sorry I-sorry I just wanted to make sure you got breakfast before heading out.” You say in a hurry as Rhett evens out his breathing. “What?” He says with confusion fulling his voice.
“Breakfast…I can make whatever you want before you leave.” You say awkwardly, now feeling like an idiot for waking up so early to do this. “Why? It’s not like we’re actually together.” Theres quite a bit of venom in the cowboy’s voice as he speaks.
He’s been like this every day for the past month and a half. Passive aggressive and sometimes just straight up rude. You sigh out in annoyance through your nose, trying to take deep breaths in an attempt to not get too angry with him. “Look, I know you hate my guts…but you don’t have to be such a fucking asshole all of the time.” You hiss out the last part frustration getting the better of you. You turn around to the stove heating up the pan to melt some of the butter.
Planting your hand on the counter you let your head hang as you compose yourself. “I just thought it would be nice to eat breakfast together and at least try to get along instead of being miserable.”
You hear Rhett let out a deep breath, before he walks over to the coffee pot. “You already started a pot?” Rhett mumbles out akwardly. “Yeah…Cecilia mentioned how you liked it and that you drank it pretty much every morning.” You voice is quite as you speak, you don’t look at him, you just watch the butter as it slowly begins to melt.
“Now I really feel like an asshole.” Rhett murmurs out after a while and you can’t help but chuckle, his accent is thicker in the morning making his words run together a bit. You smile at him as you look at his face, his ears are a bit red and he seemed embarrassed of his behavior.
“I’ll blame it on the lack of your morning coffee.” You tease and Rhett looks up at you and smiles, it’s small, but it makes your entire body heat up. You quickly turn back to look at the pan, anything is better then staring doe eyed at the cowboy.
“I’ll take some French toast.” Rhett mumbles after awhile and you smile shaking your head as you move to get the ingredients to dip the bread in. Guess French toast is better than just regular toast in the morning. “Just French toast?” You ask simply as you mix the eggs, milk and vanilla extract in a square Tupperware container to make dipping the bread into the mixture easier.
“…Maybe.” Rhett says after awhile, sipping his coffee and attempting to wake up. “How is it that a bull riding cowboy like you,” you pause to point at him before continuing to speak as you grab a piece of bread and dip it into the mixture before quickly putting it into the pan. “can live off toast alone in the morning?”
“One of the lord’s biggest blessings.” Rhett offers sarcasticly. You snort at him. “That’s a load of horse shit.” Rhett laughs and you and him continue to talk and banter playfully with one another as you cook breakfast.
And thus beings one routine of many to come. You and Rhett eventually become friends, and your crush on the blue eyed cowboy turns devastatingly into something much more and much harder to ignore.
———
Now whenever you go to rodeos to watch Rhett ride, you sit with his family, and your parents sit behind Cece and Royal. Simply so that they can gossip and watch the rodeo at the same time. Your dad and Royal are chatting it up while your mom and Cece gossip. You’re beginning to dread the day you and Rhett break this up more and more.
It helps that you two don’t kiss, or sleep in the same bad, but you’re starting to actually like this life. Rhett is riding better then ever, getting first place at every rodeo so far. Every time he looks between those bars when he loads up, the bench rooting for him is bigger than ever. Every once in a while he’ll look directly at you and the fucker winks, you’ll glare at him before grinning back.
Life is nice, good even. The more you learn about Rhett, the more you realize why there was always something about him that kept you from really looking at anyone else. You love his family, love how your parents are with his family…you may even love him at this point.
———
“You ready for your ride coming up?” You ask Rhett one morning, as you’re cooking up some eggs and bacon as he makes the toast for you both. Rhett chuckles softly, “As ready as I’ll ever be…I don’t know is ma and pa will be there though. Wane is up their asses lately.” You hum in agreement, it’s been about six months now and court is starting to feel like it’ll never end. “I’m sure they’ll find the time.” You say softly. It means to world to Rhett to have his parents there, he doesn’t have to tell you that for you to know.
You have seen how he always looks up at them through the crack of the metal bars when he gets ontop of that bull. The way his head snaps away from the score board and towards his family, every single time.
Rhett sits and watches are you cook breakfast, he’s leaning against the counter, back facing the cubers with his arms crossed. He seems to be completely relaxed. “Y’know…I thought the worst of you for years.” You laugh bitterly at his confession. “You and this whole damn town cowboy.”
“I was wrong.” That makes you freeze up a bit, and you eye him carefully. “Oh?” You muse suspiciously. “Don’t act so damn surprised that I’d admit to that.” Rhett glares at you, but there’s not bite to it. Not like there used to be.
“You aint anything how I thought you’d be.” You smile at him, before turning back to the food in the pan. “You’re not so bad yourself cowboy.” You admit softly and Rhett chuckle. “I’ll take that as a compliment sweetheart.”
“Eugh never call me that again.” You fake a shiver in fake discomfort, masking the actual shiver that pet name sends through you. Rhett laughs at you and continues to try out nicknames and pet names that make you want to sprint around the house out of sheer adrenaline.
You’re not sure when exactly it started, but you have been falling deeper and deeper into love with Rhett. So deep that you don’t see a way out of it, when this is all over, and the arranged marriage is gone, he’ll become that person who hunts you for the rest of your life.
He will be that what if, what if I tried harder to keep him, what if I just spoke up and told him how I felt, what if we never broke the marriage off, what if I never had to let him go.
Years from now, when you have all but forgotten how to love, you’ll think back to Rhett Abbott and wonder what ever became of your hot blooded cowboy.
———
It’s the last Rodeo, the championship and there is no one else here rooting for Rhett other than you…and Maria.
She’s this beautiful women that Rhett has been in love with since high school, and sure you and Rhett are “married” but she’s still as friendly as ever with him…maybe a bit too friendly. It makes your blood boil.
Tonight you’re the one who tapes Rhett’s wrist and gives him a pep talk. Royal couldn’t make it because him and Cece are still stuck at court with Wane, and Perry is home with a sick Amy. Your parents are with Royal and Cece trying to get Wane to back off.
“Okay…you’ve got this Rhett.” You begin awkwardly and Rhett laughs dryly at you. “Gee thanks coach.” You pinch his skin gentle and the cowboy laughs at you once more.
After a while of tapping his wrist in silence, you finish up and put both of your hands on his wrist. “Your entire life you’ve been living for everyone else but yourself…these past 10 years you have been riding these bulls to make your dad proud.” As you speak you don’t look Rhett in the eyes, instead you roll hus wrist around in your hands, looking over your tapping job. “Tonight…” You sigh and look him right in his baby blues. “Tonight is the night you ride for nobody else but yourself, ride to make yourself proud. Ride because you deserve this win after giving so much of yourself to everything and everyone else around you.” You pat both hus shoulders before holding then tightly and shaking him a bit. “Go get em cowboy.” In a moment of complete confidence…and maybe a bit of jealousy towards Maria, you get on your tippy toes and kiss Rhett on the cheek.
Then you scurry away faster than lightning leaving a very stunned Rhett Abbott in the dust. Mentally cursing yourself for doing that. You go sit in your spot where the Abbotts usually sit.
Once again Rhett looks at you through the bars, but he doesn’t wink, he looks unsure of himself so you give him a small smile and mouth ‘you got this cowboy’. Rhett grins and looks forward.
Unfortunately, the bull not only throws Rhett off its back harder then ever on his first attempt, but Rhett ends up landing on his shoulder in a way that most definitely dislocated the bone from its place in his socket.
You shoot up for your seat and watch him like a hawk as they usher him out of the way from the raging bull. You set off to find a spot where you can talk to him, but the mob of his fellow bull riders block you from getting Rhett’s attention. Cutting your losses you hurry back to the bleachers, but you won’t make it all the way around in time, so you go to the gate instead.
Standing on one of the bars hoping Rhett sees you, but you watch as he looks through the bars like always, but no one is there in the Abbott’s spot. Your so nervous that this is going to mess with his head, till the bull shoots out and Rhett stays on longer then ever.
And he gets first place, he wins the championship. You don’t think you have ever cheered so loudly before in your life. Rhett sees you then, standing on the gate and grinning at him like a madwoman. ‘I told you so.’ You mouth at him and he laughs shaking his head and picking up his dusty cowboy hat.
———
As you’re waiting for Rhett in your usual spot, some random dude starts hitting on you…like hardcore flirting.
“I saw you from across the Rodeo.” You pray to god that he will strike you down with lightning after those words leave the man’s mouth. He’s not Rhett level of handsome, he’s decent looking and most definitely drunk. “Wanted to know if you’d like to get a drink sometime.”
“I’m married sooo…no thank you.” You say awkwardly backing away from the man. “I don’t see a ring.” He reply makes you want to bash your head into the metal fencing. As he comes very close to you, the stench of alcohol burns your nose. “Forgot it at home.” You say simply, wondering why the hell this guy is still talking to you when you won’t even look at him. You attempt to bush him off but he keeps trying to touch you.
Before the guy can lay a finger on you, you feel an arm wrap around your shoulder and lips press against your temple. “Hey sweetheart, sorry I took so long.” Rhett’s voice is sweeter the honey and it’s got underlying anger lacing through it. “Who’s our friend here.” Rhett eyes the man up and down and suddenly this guy is shrinking into himself. “Oh I was just leaving.”
“Oh you were, huh that’s funny cuz I just watched you flirt with my wife even after she told you she was married.” Rhett’s other arm is in a sling but he’s still as intimidating as ever as he stands up straight and towers over the man. “First, I want you to apologize to my wife for being a fucking creep and then I want you to go crawl back into whatever hole you came out of.” The guy instantly rushes out an apology before running off. “I know I don’t bring much to the table…but that guy is probably the biggest asshole you’re ever gonna meet.” Rhett laughs out and you just stare at him puzzled. Till you realize that this random dude was Trevor fucking Tillerson…which made a whole lot more sense.
“Fuck…thanks for doing that Rhett.” Your skin is definitely crawling even more now, you feel unclean and uncomfortable. “Hey.” Rhett pulls you in for a one armed hug. “Aint nobody going to mess with you like that again…not if I can help it.” You pull Rhett in closer, hugging him the best you can when his arm is suck between your bodies in that sling.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” You say after backing away from him, sniffing a bit. “A bath should help with the soreness.” Rhett grins. “If you wanted me naked you could’ve just-“RHETT ABBOTT.” You hiss out cutting him off, as he starts snickering.
“GAHH, give me the keys so I can drive us home butthead.” Rhett continues to laugh but hands the keys over.
———
The drive home is fairly quiet, you can feel Rhett’s eyes on you for a majority of the ride, every time you turn to look back at him he snaps his head towards the window. You snicker after the second time and Rhett mutters grumpily.
Once you park your truck infront of your house, you turn to look at Rhett. This time he doesn’t turn away, he just stares at you, if you didn’t know any better you’d say he’s looking at you like a love sick puppy.
“What?” You ask laugh softly trying to brush off your nerves. “You’re so beautiful.” Your eyes widen in shock, and your face heats up. “Great not only didn’t you fuck up your shoulder but you have a concussion too.” You rush out as you hop out of the truck, you can hear Rhett laughing at you from inside of the cab.
“Wait honey, I’m being serious.” Rhett shouts out after you but he’s still practically wheezing. “Oh fuck off!” You shout back and Rhett jogs up to you. “I am being honest, I swear I don’t know why I keep laughing.” He sounds earnest as he holds your hand. His right hand is still in that brace, his only hand. You frown a bit looking down at the banged up brace, he’s probably used that thing for the last 7 years. “Hey.” Rhett moves his hand to lift your head up, brushing some hair behind your ear.
“Don’t gotta worry about me..kay?” He voice is soft, but soothing with the gruffness of his accent. “I think I’ll always worry about you.” You admit shyly. And Rhett smiles, you realize now that you and him are moving closer. You feel his breath fan across your lips, and just as you brush his against your own…you back away. He follows, and you smile resting your hands on his hips and pulling him closer, tilting your head to the side before kissing him. Rhett goes all in kissing you like you’re the very air that he breaths.
You tentatively run your tongue across his bottom lip and Rhett opens his mouth eagerly before backing you against the wall of your porch. His right hand on your cheek moves into your hair and you make sure to pull him in closest by his belt buckle. You’re reminded of his shoulder as his body presses against yours.
You break the kiss off, smiling at him softly. “Shouldn’t rush into anything cowboy.” You says breathlessly, and a little dumbly you’re heads too foggy for thinking too much about hwat your saying.
Rhett chuckles. “I’m not rushing into anything.” You looks at him, eying him up and down. “We’ll see how you feel after a bath.” You slip always from him to unlock the door. “Yes ma’am.”
———
Once you’re in the house, you start getting things ready for Rhett to take a bit of a bath before showering. His body could use a good soak before a shower. He got thrown around like a rag doll by god knows how many pound bull. He could use a deep clean too.
———
As your getting things ready, Rhett grabs ahold of your hand. “I wanted to…I want to thank you for the pep talk, and for being there to watch me ride.” His face is beat red as he speak, staring down at his socks as he talks. “It meant-it means more to me than you ever know.” Rhett looks up at you shyly, before stepping closer to you. “Even after courts over…would you-I mean-I would like it if you could stay here…with me.”
“Well Rhett…this is my house.” Rhett groans out at your response. “Y’know what I meant.”
“I do, and I would love to. To be honest, I’ve never…I really didn’t want to have to let you go.” You sheepishly murmur. Rhett breaths out in relief, surging forward to kiss you. You smile into it, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him closer. Rhett bends down obediently and cups the side of your face with his right hand. Things start to heat up as you are whisked away by the moment.
It really takes a turn down the road of no return when Rhett all but whines into your open mouth when you tug at his hair. Rhett breaks the kiss to lean his head against your shoulder, a movement that grants you perfect access to his neck. You kiss and lick and even nibble at the exposed skin as your hands begin to travel down his frame.
“Sweetheart.” Rhett breathes out in response to your actions and you can’t help the wistful sigh that slips for your lips. That term of endearment at a moment like this just fuels the liquid heat of desire flowing through your veins. “Hehe, I knew it.” Rhett laughs breathlessly against your shoulder before moving to look you in the eyes. “I knew you liked it when I called you that.” You glare at him as nasty as you can mange. “Shut up.” And Rhett just laughs at you. You can’t help but smile and kiss him as hard as you can, while giving the bulge in his pants a light squeeze. Rhett jumps and grabs ahold of your wrist, and you grin into the kiss backing away far enough to see the expression on his face.
His eyes are screwed shut, brows scrunched and mouth hung open. The sight alone would give an old church woman a heart attack. “You good there cowboy.” Your own voice sounds so foreign, breathless and seductive in a manner that is so unfamiliar to you. “You’re an asshole.” He grumbles out in annoyance.
“Better watch it, you’re the one with only one arm…I can get away with a whole lot more than you.” You tease playfully before palming at Rhett’s growing excitement through his jeans. He’s all but panting now, and he’s left fumbling while you head off towards the bathroom. “Come on cowboy.” You call back to him as you begin to undress on your way to the door. Once you’re inside, reality hits you…you’re wayyyy over yo it head. Whatever confidence you once had flys out the window. This is Rhett fucking Abbott, and you have him all riled up and the poor guy has only one functioning arm.
You try to get ahold of your nerves as you begin to run the water, you only really got your shirt off, now you you’re standing in your jeans and a bra with your hands covering your face.
Just when you think you broke Rhett and he’s not going to follow behind you, you feel his arms wrap around your waist pulling you close as your back is skin to skin with his bare chest. His lips press against your the back of your left shoulder.
“The bath can wait.” Rhett mumbles against your skin, he kisses up toward your neck slowly. And it heats your body up and clams your nerves at the same time. Before you can rip him a new on for taking his arm out of his sling, Rhett speaks up. “I’ll be fine, like you said…you can get away with a lot more than me right now.”
———
You’re not quite sure how, but you and Rhett end up back in your room. Shortly after the water in the bathroom got turned off, Rhett pounced on you.
So here you are, on your back with Rhett ontop off you, kissing down your neck at a painfully slow pace. It’s like he’s on a mission to drive you completely and utterly insane. “Am I takin too long?” Rhett teases out, and laughs as you huff. “How’d ya guess.” You hiss out and Rhett laughs against your collarbone. “Your nose is all scrunched up, you only ever do that when you’re mad.” Rhett’s only good arm is holding up all his weight while his other hand starts trailing down your stomach towards the top of your jeans.
You lost your bra somewhere on the way down the hall, which is much towards your benefit because it’s one less thing Rhett can drag the ever living hell out. “You’re not the only one that’s been payin attention…that’s been watching.” The tension in your body snaps once Rhett nips at the top of your left breast. You suck in a deep breath to avoid making a noise but he can feel how your abdomen tenses at his actions. “Been going to the rodeos for years, you seriously didn’t think I wouldn’t notice you watching me.” Rhett’s voice is hot against your skin, as his kisses travel towards your nipple and then around it. “Rhett.” You attempt to hiss his name out but instead it comes out needy and desperate in a way that makes your face heat up with embarrassment.
“I’ve gotcha…you have not idea what it was like watching that asshole hit on you.” His right hand travels back up as he swipes his thumb across your right nipple. This time you sigh out and hold back a whine as your whole body jolts. “Fuckin Tillerson, always wanting what they can’t have…always wanting what’s not theirs to take.”
“What am I cattle.” You chuckle in an attempt of humor but it’s cut off by you crying out as Rhett flicks hus tongue against your left breast. “No, you’re much more then that…don’t even joke about yourself like that sweetheart.”
“Okay. Okay.” You breathe out harshly and suddenly Rhett is kissing you again. “My shoulders starting to burn.” Rhett grumbles out, and you laugh at him. “That karma for taking so damn long.” He smiles. “Maybe…but I aint done with you yet.”
Rhett sits up straight, sitting on the back of his legs from hus spot between your legs. “Help me take your jeans off?” You breath out before unbuttoning your pants and lift in your hips up in a hurry. Rhett laughs softly at your rushing and gabs both your jeans and underwear, pulling them both off at the same time. “Hey!” You laugh out. “You said just the jeans.” Rhett shrugs. “Less work for me.” He’s got a shit eating grin as he leans down to kiss you, it’s messy and hot and leaves you wanting to keep him there the whole night. But as he kisses across your jaw, and down your neck, anticipation begins to bubble up inside of you. Rhett’s kisses down your body turn into wet open mouthed ones the closer and closer he gets to his destination.
Right about the middle of your stomach is when you feel on of his fingers drag along your wet heat. The sensation leaves you breathless, and your back arches up into his mouth. “For fucks sake.” You hiss out and you can feel Rhett’s laughter against your navel. That finger rubs up and down your entire entrance before making a b-line do your clint. The second he reaches it you gasp out, and one of your hands flys to the back of his head, twisting and tangling into his curly hair.
“Rhett.” This time you can’t help but moan out his name as his finger rubs circles into you. You can feel out your body shakes, you have been wound up for months. Too reserved to go out for hook ups and way to afraid to relieve yourself with Rhett right next door to your room.
Your responsiveness has Rhett doubling down on his efforts to please you. His mouth is at your hip bone by the time his fingers make their way back down to your core. As his sinks in one finger, his mouth latches onto your clint and your gripping onto his hair for dear life now as another cry rips through you. Rhett hums into you and it sends a ripple of pleasure that shoots through your spine.
“Rhett! You-Fuck.” Your head digs into your pillows as you screw your eyes shut, and your back lifts off the bed once more. You can feel the stretch as Rhett adds another finger slowly and carefully as he continues to work your clint. Whatever pain it discomfort that you might’ve felt is dulled but the sensation of his mouth in you.
Rhett continues to work his fingers in and out of you as he abuses your bundle of nerves, and the mixture of both sensations has you climbing higher and higher.
“Rhett…Rhett don’t-don’t stop.” Your head spins and your ears begin to ring as you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge.
“I’m so-Rhett!” Your squeak out as hus fingers finally nail the spot that has you seeing stars. It’s almost too much. “There!” You gasp out and Rhett immediately focuses on that spot, rubbing and pushing into it over and over again, as he sucks and even beings to nibble on your clint. And all the sudden your falling, head thrown backwards and your back arching and mouth hanging open in a silent scream.
When you finally come back to earth, Rhett is whispering into your ear as he works you through your high with his fingers. As your breathing evens out he stops and brings the damn things to his mouth. You watch him clean them off, wide eyed and suddenly more than ready to jump his bones.
“There you are, I was begin to worry about you sweetheart.” Rhett sounds about as breathless and boneless as you do, as if he’s thriving off your experience.
“I’m keeping you.” Is the first thing you manage to say, and Rhett laughs out loud shaking his head. He stop and leans back enough to fully look you over. “I’m all yours.”
In an instant, you manage to pin the cowboy down to the mattress. Attacking him and kisses and nipping at his skin. When you lean back and look down at him, Rhett stares up at you in awe, like you have hung the very moon and the stars in the night sky.
“What are ya up to.” Rhett accuses playfully. “Y’kniw what they say…” you trail off as you lean down to nip playful at his nipples, and you’re very pleased to see that the action has him sucking in a breath. Something you note and tuck away into the archive of you know how about the man below you, saving the information for another night. “Save a horse…” you look up at him through your eyelashes and watch has his blue eyes widen in realization. “Ride a cowboy.”
You watch how he gulps before plopping his head down and groaning out. “You’re gonna kill me.” He exasperates at you laugh at him. “I’m gonna ride you like you ride one of those damn bulls.” You correct him.
Rhett stared at you in complete shock and disbelief. “And here I thought I was the one with the filthy mouth.” You grin as you unbuckle his rodeo belt, the belt buckle pops open with surprising ease. You and him both mange to get him out of the jeans, but you decide to leave the boxer shorts on. A little revenge never hurt no body.
Rhett just looks relieved to get his pants off and he’s quick to lean up and drag you back down for a kiss. You go happily, kissing him with as much desperation and fever as he does you. You give a bit of and experimental roll of your hips, and the sound he makes, Rhett hold onto you in tightly and presses his hips up into yours as you continue to roll them down.
Rhett breaks the kiss and breaths out harshly, you’re not better than him, still sensitive from your first orgasim. “Please tell me you have a condom Rhett.” Rhett gasps out and nods enthusiastically. “Jeans back pocket.”
You are so quick to hop off and get the condom you bearly recover from almost wiping out and eating shit. You can hear Rhett laugh out breathlessly and as you turn around to scold him, condom in hand, you stop dead in your tracks as you take the time to fully appreciate the sight of Rhett Abbott, naked as the day he was born and on your bed.
“You’re…is there anything about you that isn’t so damn beautiful.” You whisper out and the way Rhett flushes has you freaking out internally. “I could ask you the same thing sweetheart.” You smile at him, before climbing back ontop if him. You take your time as you kiss him once more, slow and deep, it makes your head spin and as you back away, he’s chasing after your lips trying to bring you back into a kiss.
You laugh once more, you never thought sex could be so…fun, relaxing, so un-rushed. There it is again, those three words at the tip of your tongue, you swallow them down. You want to have better timing than this when you say that for the first time.
“Ready cowboy?” Rhett laughs at your question and nods. “Yeah…yeah I’m ready.” His first word comes out slightly high pitched and squeaky. You smile and peck his lips before open the condom up, and slipping it onto his length. It’s then that you fully take in just how girthy he really is. Man is 6 feet tall you really should’ve seen this coming. You can’t help but give him a few pumps that has Rhett gasping out and gabbing ahold of your hand.
“Sweetheart…I’m way to wound up for you to be doing that right now.” You grin and get ready to ‘sattle up’ (gah I’m so sorry for that)
You pant a both hands on Rhett’s chest as up lift your hips to sink down on him, Rhett’s grip on your thighs tightens as you begin to slowly sink down on him. Lifting your hips up and down to help with the pressure of taking in someone the size of him. Every time you lift your hips downwards to take in just a little bit more of him.
After a while, you give yourself time to adjust after he bottoms out. Both of you are shaking and breathing hard the break is very much needed for the both of you. “You okay up there?” Rhett’s voice makes you crack your eyes open, and god…isn’t he a sight. Cheeks flushed and blue eyes hazy as he lazily blinks up at you. “I should ask you that cowboy, you look worn out and we haven’t even started.” Rhett laughs softly and sits up with his good arm supporting his weight.
His left hand shakes as it reaches up to brush against to face, and you lean into his touch, letting your eyes flutter shut as you bask in the warmth of him. “You’re so beautiful, I don’t know how I could’ve ever missed you in that crowd.” You smile softly and look into his eyes. “You’re everything to me.” You murmur out, it’s ironic, saying I love you is too much, but saying that isn’t???
Rhett smiles, in a way you have never bared witness to before. Is so…warm and tender, leaving you feeling fuzzy. Rhett pulls you in for a kiss, that’s just as warm and tender as his smile. And you begin to roll your hips, and you feel the shuttering breath Rhett lets out through his nose against your cheek. Another roll and you can help but gasp out into the kiss as you and Rhett begin to pant into each other’s open mouths.
Eventually, Rhett ends up on his back once more as you live up to what you said. You roll your hips and alter between that and lifting your hips up before slamming them back down at a brutal angle and pace. Rhett’s moans and whines are what fuels your actions. Who would’ve ever guessed that this cowboy could be so vocal.
Rhett helps the best he can, but with one arm is pretty hard to. You’re as ruthless as can be, gasping out and whining right along with the man below you.
———
By the end of the night, you’re both boneless and worn out. You fall asleep in each others arms, and when you wake up…Rhett is still there, sleeping peacefully and looks so peaceful in the morning light.
He pulls you closer to him, kissing your forehead and mumbling a good morning to you softly. He’s attached to you as you cook breakfast, arms wrapped around your waist and his head on your shoulder, he occasionally kisses your cheek your your neck. From time to time you’ll turn your head to kiss him.
It’s one morning of many more that will share it’s likeness for the years to come.
Fin
——————
Guys…ima need to bath in holy water after this…this is the filthiest thing I have EVER written.
Cut it short at the end cus it’s 1am rn. I HOPE YOU LIKED THIS ANON SO SORRY IF IT DIDN’T LIVE UP TO YOUR EXPECTATIONS
a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ
odds are stacked I @sunlightmurdock I S I In which Rhett loses a bet and you lose your virginity.
goodbye kisses I @writingdumpster I C I the morning after a bad fight with rhett you don’t give him his goodbye kiss.
drabble I @jasvtsc I F + S
moonlight desires I @em1i2a3 I S + A + F I You’ve wanted Rhett Abbot since the day you laid your eyes on him. So when the opportunity for a friends with benefits arrangement presents itself you immediately take the plunge, even though there is a risk of hurt feelings on both ends.
is it casual now? I @lewmagoo I H/C
lunch break I @/lewmagoo I S
dog days I @/lewmagoo I S
yours, officially pt2 I @verricherri I F
request I @withahappyrefrain I S
possibility I @sebsxphia I A + F I maybe you and rhett could make this work.
house in nebraska I @mustyrosewater I A I when she went missing, disappeared without a trace, it was almost like a deep seated black hole found it's way into rhetts chest, as he recalls all his time spent with her admist trying to find answers, the deep seated energy of the cursed lands they live on come apart to make way for lovers to find each other again.
to the nines I @bradshawsbaby I F
what do you mean you paid for it? I @girlcowboy I F
Summary: In public you appear tender and innocent, even somewhat naive. With your good girl face and docile attitude, no one could imagine that behind closed doors you were eating up the town's notorious cowboy.
Warnings: Fem!reader, petit!reader, submissive attitude of the reader only during the day (wink, wink), very ooc!, age gap kinda(?, riding, cussing a bit.
Wc: 711
With your custom-made boots, impeccable dress like a cottony cloud and your low pigtails falling over your shoulders and framing your face, you gave the impression of a perfect and good girl. Or at least that's what you intended
Maybe sometimes you exaggerated in your mannerisms, feigning surprise and disbelief every time a boy flirted with you or you laughed softly, blushing when you heard a dirty joke as if the possibility of imagining that didn't exist in your mind.
Oh you, always so adorable and helpful, you helped feed the animals, collected the eggs and helped in the kitchen, sometimes you even offered to carry the heavy alfalfa and tried to watch over the pigeon nests that were on the tin roof of your house despite your height.
But when you walked by that cowboy, your whole facade fell apart because with just one look, you two knew how naughty you really were. But that was a secret, of course. That cowboy wasn't very popular with many people. He was the kind of man who would take advantage of others, or the kind who always had that "all in control" and sarcastic attitude. And your family wouldn't let you get near him for anything.
Gosh, what would the townspeople say if they heard you screaming Rhett's name at night like an unhinged beast? It would be a calamity. Or seeing you "casually" walk past him in a sinfully short skirt only to have him dragged behind the barn? Oh no, God forbid!
No, no one could imagine that behind that sweet appearance hid an absolutely nasty girl, and that amused Rhett. He enjoyed imagining people's faces if they saw you riding him like a wild beast, uttering the filthiest things in his ear that shot out of your sweet little mouth like snake venom.
They also couldn't tell how you walked by him, savoring a lollipop and looking at him through your thick eyelashes, or how you bent over to pick a daisy to take to your mother, accidentally revealing your butt and your under-dress. Or how Rhett, clenching his jaw to contain himself, suddenly snapped and easily lifted you up to sit on the fence, kissing your neck and behind your ear, and how whenever that happened, you'd slyly ask him to please leave some slightly visible hickeys.
Only he knew the real you. And how many times has he laughed mockingly or rolled his eyes at you performing that absurd pantomime like a play where you played the role of a virgin, pure, and perfect girl.
"Why can't I wear a man's cowboy hat?" you asked, pouting.
Your older brother laughed modestly but sympathetically, shaking his head at his sister. As if she couldn't reason with something like that.
"That's a story for another day...or another life."
And Abbott couldn't help but remember all the times he had you on top of him just because of that hat rule.
His cerulean eyes darted from your tits to your face, unable to focus on one spot. He watched them bounce with each thrust you made on his cock, then looked at you, your proud smile lifting one corner higher than the other and your hand holding the hat on your head. His hat
"You are a very dirty girl, I wonder what others would say if they saw you like this right now, doll" He laughed between grunts as he felt your walls tighten.
You laughed sarcastically. "I don't care if I can keep riding you like this."
Your hips rocked back and forth as if you were riding a mechanical bull, following a controlled rhythm so you wouldn't tire. Rhett threw his head back and dug his fingers into your thighs and butt.
"Ngh Jesus doll, look at you taking me so well. But fffuck what will your family say about this?" he teases you because he knew you really didn't care otherwise you wouldn't be with him.
You leaned your body over him and grabbed the hair on the back of his neck, pulling it back. Rhett let out a guttural moan.
"Shut that pretty fucking mouth of yours unless you use it to eat my pussy, huh?"
No knight in shining armour - but a cowboy will do
pairing: Rhett Abbott × reader
warnings: positive depiction of sex work (strip club), small-town gossip/sexism, non-explicit lap dance, no mentions of y/n
summary: Rhett doesn’t need to pay for attention - never has - but one night under neon he looks up and finds beauty in the last place he expects. You’re onstage: calm, controlled, running the room with good rules and better timing. He keeps his eyes where you ask and learns that consent can be chemistry. A week later he’s back, nervous as a teenager, and you make it easy: two songs, steady hands, the clean relief of being seen. Between shifts and small-town nights there are fries, quiet conversations, and a kitchen that forgives. You don’t need a knight in shining armour - but a cowboy who keeps his promises is nice to have.
notes: feel free to leave comments and/or feedback. likes and reblogs are always appreciated! also, feel free to send in requests!
disclaimer: English is not my first language, so please excuse any mistakes 😊
word count: 17.9k
He doesn't really want to go. He says so twice on the drive, once when the road leaves the county line, and again when the neon from a few towns over starts pooling in the ditches like spilled antifreeze. The guys drag him anyway - allegiance to them is counted in years rather than sense. They laugh and thump the back of his seat and tell him it’s good to “get out”.
Rhett Abbott doesn’t need to pay for attention. He’s had enough women for that kind of pride to be a point of principle. But here he is, slipping cash into a place where money keeps the lights warm and the smiles warmer. The neon buzzes. The floor sticks. The air smells like vanilla, stale beer, and the kind of perfume that survives a storm. The group slides into a corner booth - out of the spotlight, close enough to watch everything. Rhett takes the outside seat, one leg stretched into the aisle.
The club’s a paradox - too loud to hear and too dim to see. The DJ says something the crowd answers with money and shouts. A bartender with a comet-tail of glitter arches an eyebrow when his friends order a round and slide a stack of crumpled bills across the lacquered wood. Rhett keeps his hat on because it feels like armor and sets his shoulders against the booth because that’s where they go when he doesn’t trust his knees. He tells himself he won’t look long. He tells himself he’ll take the measure of the place and that’ll be that.
Then you step out.
The stage lights catch where your robe parts and paint everything else in suggestion. It’s midnight-blue satin, trimmed in rhinestones that throw little meteors across the ceiling when you move. A slit flashes a glimpse of the outfit beneath - white bodysuit stitched with constellations of crystal, a narrow belt at your waist, sheer tights with a neat seam, silver heels that catch and scatter the light like spurs gone fancy. Your earrings swing once, bright as tossed coins; a thin choker winks at your throat. Vanilla and clean skin drift ahead of you, the kind of perfume that knows how to survive a storm. His breath stutters. Something in his chest stands up straight.
The room’s noise goes muffled. Rhett now has the hat folded in his lap, thumbs pressed into the crease, and the grip goes tight without him meaning to. Awe, he thinks - distant and a little startled - not a word he uses even for bulls that jump like lightning or dawns that come up copper. It lands anyway, clean and bright, like steel ringing under a hammer. His breath stutters. He takes you in the way a man reads weather: the line of your shoulder, the sure set of your hips, the rhythm you drag the room into without breaking a sweat. The rhinestones ripple when you turn - stars shaken loose into a night you wear like it belongs to you. He notices dumb, human details that make it worse - in a good way: one nick on the heel, a single stone missing near your hip, the precise sweep of liner that makes your eyes look like they can cut and still be kind. He keeps his gaze on your face, like a promise he made himself. One boot plants hard on the sticky floor, one knee easing into the aisle as if his body wants to move closer, but his manners say stay. The track is all bass and no heart until you give it both. He forgets the drink sweating beside his hand. He remembers only the arc of your smile, the slow economy of your hands, the fact that a dozen people are looking, and somehow it feels like you’re teaching him how to breathe.
You’re beautiful the way the weather is - moving, indifferent, inevitable. It isn’t about skin; it’s about geometry and confidence, about the line from your throat to your shoulder, the certain way your weight shifts on the beat. You don’t rush. You never need to. The crowd leans in; you don’t have to meet them halfway. Rhett forgets the glass in his hand until the cold sweats down his fingers. He sets it aside without looking. His friends are hooting in that way that makes him embarrassed for men as a species; he lets their noise flow past him. He’s not staring like the others - at least, he hopes he isn’t. He’s watching. There’s a difference. He’s taken enough falls to know reverence when it breaks over him.
You find him sooner than he expects you to - maybe it’s the way he holds still in a room that otherwise never does, or the way he keeps his eyes north of your collarbone. You clock him like you clock weather too: the hat, the throat, the hands that look like they’ve known work and whiskey and the inside of a pocket when there’s nothing to say. Handsome, not old. Not the kind that tries to buy more than the room is selling. You give him that split-second that costs you nothing and feels like everything to someone paying. A glance held two beats past professional. A corner-smile that has the grace to be private while half the county’s here. When you turn under the lights, you aim one thread of your attention his way and tug. He feels it like a lariat dropped soft over his shoulders. It changes the air for him. He sits up a little. He forgets about leaving early.
You finish the first song with a flourish that’s all punctuation and no apology. Bills float like autumn leaves at the edge of the stage. A man with a birthday sash throws confetti and misses your mark by a yard. You walk the long curve of the stage to collect what the night owes you, and as you pass the side closest to his booth, you let your gaze sweep, then settle - briefly, unmistakably - on him. It’s not a promise. It’s not an invitation. It’s a gracious acknowledgement: I see you, and you are not the worst thing in this room. The set rolls on. You don’t burn hot; you bank and glow, a better kind of heat. When you step down, the room tilts toward you. Girls in glittered robes exchange nods like handoffs in a relay. You loop the floor once because that’s part of the choreography too - drink water, check on the table that’s tipping sloppy, nudge a bouncer with your chin about the guy who’s getting brave. You pass Rhett’s booth in that circuit. Close enough he can catch the warm-cool flicker of your perfume, close enough to read the tiny scuff in the leather of your heel. He keeps his eyes at eye-level like a promise he made to himself. When you reach his table, your fingers land - not on him - but on the edge of his napkin, two taps like a knuckle on a door.
“You good, cowboy?” you ask, and somehow there’s no teasing in it. He wants to say something smooth, but smooth isn’t his language. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, voice turned down low, like talking in church. The ma’am is clean, not age. Respect. Gratitude he doesn’t fully understand. You give him your full attention for one breath, two. His hat’s brim casts his eyes into shade, but the line of his mouth is honest. There’s a scrape on his knuckle that says he works where there are edges. It’s enough to make you default to your safest move: keep it simple, keep it kind. You lean in, just a little, just enough to make it personal. He goes a touch stiff anyway - spine straightening, breath catching, fingers tightening around his glass. “You keep that seat,” you say. “You make the room look better.” It’s a small gift, but you place it real neat between you. Then you’re moving again, not lingering long enough to turn the moment into something it isn’t. You slide a clean coaster under his sweating glass on your way by, the sly courtesy of someone who understands the theater of attention. You drop a wink at the bartender who’s chronically two steps behind, rescue a drink before it ends up in a lap, and melt back toward the dressing-room door like tide through a channel. Rhett watches you go without greed in it. Wonder, yes. The kind that smooths a furrow between his brows and makes him breathe deeper. He hears his friends razz him for being “struck dumb,” and for once he doesn’t mind the accuracy. He tilts the brim back a notch and, for the first time since they crossed the county line, he smiles.
The next set starts with a different girl, different song, same bass. Rhett sits the way men do when they’re trying not to fidget. He’s aware of his hands, of the pull in his shoulder from the last ride, of the way the booth’s vinyl warms under him like a living thing. He doesn’t buy a dance. He isn’t here for that - not tonight, maybe not ever. He’s here because the world broke open in a place he didn’t expect, and because you saw him and didn’t make a joke of it. You return to the floor near the end of the hour, robe tied in front of your waist. You’re off the clock for ten minutes, and everyone knows it. The brave ones try anyway; you ghost past with a smile that says later or never. You angle your path close to his booth again, the way a bird uses the same current twice. “Still good?” you ask, a little amused now. “Better,” he admits, and the word sounds like he tried it on first. He nudges his glass toward the coaster you gifted him. “Thanks for this.” “Can’t have you leaking all over my stage,” you say and the joke isn´t lost on him.
You leave him with that, because that’s enough. Extra attention, not extra story. You don’t make a habit of feeding the hope that eats girls like you for breakfast. But a handsome cowboy who looks at your face before your body and says ma’am like it’s a bow without bending? He gets a little sunlight in the dark. When last call looms and the neon hum fattens into something sleepy, Rhett doesn’t feel cheated or used or lonely. He feels like he came out for a thing he didn’t want and found something he didn’t know he needed: beauty in the last place he’d expect - under neon, on sticky floors, in a room built to sell everything but this.
On the way out, his friends are all elbows and talk. He tucks his hat down and lets the night take his face. He doesn’t look back, not because he’s afraid to, but because he wants to keep the picture he already has - your glance, your two taps on the napkin, the way you made a mercy of attention without making it a debt. Outside, the air is desert-cool and honest. He stands in it a moment longer than the others, then climbs into the truck. The engine turns. The road rises up to meet them. A few towns over, a man who thought he needed nothing but the ride finds himself thinking about a woman who walked past him and left something better than a bruise: the clean, precise relief of being seen.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
He comes back on a Tuesday, alone this time in the hope that you are working that night. He parks farther from the door like distance might rinse the wanting off him. The neon has the same tired hum; the air has the same syrupy perfume. He tells himself he’s just killing an evening, that the road happened to bend this way. The lie doesn’t even bother to dress up. At the bar he orders water, then whiskey, then changes his mind and leaves both sweating on a coaster. He keeps glancing at the door like a boy whose ride might not show. The bouncer clocks him as harmless; the bartender clocks him as a tip in progress. Rhett tugs his hat brim and feels ridiculous for doing it indoors, then more ridiculous for taking it off and holding it in his lap like a shield.
When you step into the room, his chest lifts like he’s been underwater. The embarrassment catches up a second later: he came back for you. Not for the noise, not for his friends, not for a night he can’t remember on purpose. For you. You spot him quick - same booth, same careful posture, different quiet. There’s a nervous energy on him now, a newness that sits on broad shoulders and makes him look younger than he is in a way that’s almost tender. Handsome and not old, yes, but tonight he’s also shy, like the floor might tilt if he stands too fast. On your first pass by the bar, you give him that signature two-tap on the napkin. “You good, cowboy?” He swallows. “Workin’ on it.” “Want help?” you ask, light as a feather. He nods once, then finds his voice. “Could I -” He clears his throat. “If you’ve got time… buy a dance?” You run through your standard: “House rules. No touching. Two songs or three?” “Two,” he says, then adds in a rush, “Please.”
The private room is nothing special - lamp, curtain, loveseat that squeaks an opinion. You cue the songs with the DJ, then step in and let the curtain fall. You keep it professional: you tell him where to put his hands (on the seat), where to keep his eyes (wherever he likes, but you hold them), and how to breathe (steady, like the world isn’t burning down). “What’s your name?” you ask, as you smooth the edge of the curtain. “Rhett,” he says, voice low, hat abandoned on the side table like a surrendered flag. The natural next thing is and you? It rises to his tongue and stalls there. He knows what he’d get: the clock-name, the one printed on cards and whispered over bass, pretty and not-quite-true. He doesn’t feel like he deserves the real one yet, and the idea of prying at it feels wrong - like picking at a good knot just to see if it slips. Besides, part of him is afraid a name would puncture the magic, let the air out of the illusion he’s barely learned how to breathe inside. He swallows the question and lets mystery stay where it’s doing no harm. “First time?” you ask, already knowing the answer. He tips his head. “Feels like it.” “You’re fine,” you say, and mean it. “Just sit back.”
When the music starts, you take your time. You don’t sell shock; you sell control. You straddle the space of his lap without collapsing it, move with the beat in smooth, unhurried lines. Your hands stay on your own body; his stay exactly where you set them. You let the closeness do what closeness does - the warmth, the rhythm, the suggestion - without turning it into something else. He’s so nervous it’s almost sweet. The first time you sink your weight a fraction, his breath catches against your shoulder. You can feel it when his body responds - nothing dramatic, just the plain human truth of it, pressure and heat and that sudden, involuntary change. He goes still, mortified. “Sorry,” he whispers, as if an apology could make biology reconsider. “I -” You tip your mouth near his ear so he hears you over the bass. “It’s normal, Rhett.” Your tone is easy, like you’re telling him the weather. “You’re doing fine.” He nods, Adam’s apple working, jaw tight with the effort of not fidgeting. You pace the dance to his nerves, trading spectacle for steadiness. When you roll your hips the barest inch, he bites off a sound and looks like he might actually forget how to breathe. You ease back a hair, let the music carry the moment so he can catch up. “Eyes up,” you remind, not scolding. He lifts them, and the gratitude in that look makes the room feel smaller and kinder.
By the second song he’s found a rhythm of his own - hands anchored where you put them, shoulders dropping, breath syncing with the beat and your slow, deliberate sway. He’s still obviously turned on; that hasn’t changed. What’s changed is the shame. You let your smile tell him there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You keep the rules with the same gentleness you keep the time. “Doing okay?” you ask midway through. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough but steady. Then, quieter, “Better’n okay.” You let the last thirty seconds be mostly eye contact and suggestion, the dance equivalent of a hand laid over a racing heart to coax it calmer. When the song winds down, you slide away with the same professionalism you brought in, leaving an inch of air like a gift. “All done,” you say, soft but businesslike. “You were perfect.” He laughs once, breathy, disbelieving. “Don’t reckon that’s the word.” “It is tonight.” You stand, adjust your robe back on, and look him over for the telltale signs - spun out, spun up, or centered. He looks centered, if a little dazed.
He fumbles his wallet and then stops, catching himself before he turns the moment into a clumsy apology-by-cash. He folds the bills neat, places them where you can take them without a scramble, and meets your eyes. “Thank you.” “Anytime,” you say, which in this context means exactly what it should: if you book me, I’ll be here; if you don’t, we’re still square. At the curtain he hesitates, hat back in his hands. “I, uh-” He clears his throat again, that teenage echo he can’t quite shake. “I was… a little embarrassed. Comin’ back.” You tip your head. “You came back polite, sober, and respectful. That’s all anyone can ask.” He works his jaw, then nods like you just granted him amnesty. “Okay,” he says, almost to himself. “Okay.” You give him a small, private smile - the kind that doesn’t cost you and might carry him a week. “See you around, cowboy.”
Out at the bar, the room swallows him up again. He stands there a long second, getting his legs under him, then sets his hat on his head like it belongs there. He doesn’t bolt, doesn’t brag. He buys a bottle of water and tips heavy. On his way to the door, he glances back once - not to cling, but to mark the place where something careful and good happened. Outside, the night is cool and ordinary. He breathes it in like a man who finally remembers how, and he smiles at the ridiculousness of it all: full-grown, callused, more miles than money - and yet nervous as a teenager because a woman gave him two songs and treated him like he was worth the rules.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
He comes back on another weeknight when the parking lot looks washed out and the neon is doing its best. He tells himself it’s just habit now - same booth, same water sweating on the coaster, same way he keeps his hat low and his eyes level. Truth is, he couldn’t wait. He knows it and winces at himself for knowing it. You’re on second set. He spots you before the crowd does, like his eyes have been trained to find you. He watches the way you time the room, how you make it slow down without ever asking. Tonight it’s a black velvet bodysuit with rhinestone fringe that waterfalls off your hips and ribs, long gloves to the elbow, sheer tights with a razor-straight seam, silver heels that throw little sparks when you pivot. A short robe - deep green satin - slides off your shoulders in a shrug of light, and the stage catches you the way a tide catches a moon.
You dance in clean geometry - hips writing slow commas, shoulders ticking to the count, a spine roll that feels like a drawl. You use stillness like a weapon: hold, breathe, make the room lean toward you because you haven’t given it permission to breathe out yet. When you turn, the fringe answers in a bright hush; when you step, you plant like you mean to own the square inch under your heel. You don’t chase the crowd - you make it come to you. He watches the way you time the room, how you slow it down without asking. He doesn’t buy a dance. Not tonight. He just…looks. Tries to be decent about it, lets you work, and takes the gift of being allowed to witness without taking. When your eyes sweep his side of the rail and snag on him for two beats - no more, no less - his breath trips and then evens, like he’s found the rhythm you were always offering. As the track turns sly, you drift to the edge of the stage nearest his side and angle your back to him. Then you sink into a slow crouch - one knee forward, spine long, rhinestone fringe whispering as it settles - tilting your hips just enough that the view is deliberate. You glance over your shoulder, a two-beat dare, then rise like you’ve got gravity on a string. Heat flickers through him: a thought sketches itself in outline - hands at your waist, a laugh against his mouth - and he corrals it back behind good manners. Palms flat to the table. Eyes up, like a promise. The wanting stays contained, bright and clean, something he can carry without breaking.
After your set he realizes he needs air more than he needs courage. He slips outside, shoulders hitting cool night like a reset button. The brick wall’s rough through his shirt when he leans back. He counts his breaths, then the cars that pass on the highway. He tells himself he won’t make this a thing. He tells himself a lot of things. The door clicks. Footsteps. He straightens, half-guilty, and then forgets to be guilty at all. It’s you - same person, different lighting. The stage is gone; the armour too. You’ve got on a soft hoodie, jeans, sneakers that squeak when you step wrong on rain. Less makeup. Your hair is pulled up in a way that says you did it while walking. You look like a real night and not the idea of one. “My shift’s over,” you say, like weathermen say there’s a chance of rain. “I’m hungry.” “Oh,” he says, brilliant. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” You angle your chin toward the street. “You wanna grab a bite?” For a second he’s all thumbs and vowels. “I- I don’t wanna… if that’s- I mean, do you- Are you sure?” Your mouth tilts. “I asked, didn’t I?” He nods too many times. “Right. Yes, ma’a-” He bites it off, flustered. “Yes.”
You tuck your hands into your hoodie pocket and rock back on your heels, easy. “There’s a diner two blocks over. Good fries. Terrible coffee in a charming way.” “Bad coffee’s honest,” he says, relieved to find a sentence that comes out in one try. You start walking. He falls in beside you, trying to match your pace and not stomp it flat. The night is clean compared to inside - cold air, wet pavement, the hum of a soda machine from somewhere you can’t see. He keeps glancing at you and then away, like he’s checking mirrors. “You look different,” he says, and immediately wishes he’d thought about it first. “Good. I mean - you looked good before. Still do. I just -” He surrenders. “I like this.” “This?” you prompt, amused. “Normal,” he says, gesturing vaguely at hoodie, sneakers, the way your eyes look like eyes and not stage lights. “I like… you, like this.” A beat. “If that doesn’t sound wrong.” “It doesn’t,” you say. No edge, no test. Just fact. “Most people prefer the packaging. It’s nice to be the person for a minute.” He laughs, quiet. “Packaging’s a lot to carry.” “Pays the bills,” you shrug. “But sometimes it’s heavy, yeah.”
You wait at a crosswalk even though there’s no traffic. He notices that and files it alongside a dozen other small rules you keep - how you tap the napkin, how you leave a beat before you smile, how you never crowd. The kind of careful he understands. “Just so we’re clear,” you say, eyes on the blinking hand, “public place, quick bite, then home. I don’t do complicated.” He nods, grateful you said it first. “Me neither.” “Good.” The light flips. “We’ll split the check or you can get this one and I’ll get next time.” The words hit him like a warm palm to the sternum: next time. He tries not to make a ceremony of it. “I can - yeah. This one’s on me. If that’s okay.” “That’s okay,” you say, like you’re letting him hold one end of something light. You pass a pawn shop and a closed barber and a mural that’s lost half its colors to weather. He keeps wanting to look at you and keeps doing it in small, respectful slices. Without the stage paint, your expressions read cleaner - surprise, then humor, then a faint caution that doesn’t feel like a wall so much as a gate with working hinges. He thinks about the lap dance last week - the heat, the rush, the absolutely human problem of his body getting ahead of his mind. He thinks about how you handled it like weather: named it, steadied it, let it pass. He’d been embarrassed then. Right now he isn’t. He just feels… settled. “You always this nervous?” you ask, light. “Only when I like something,” he says, then goes pink like a teenager who realized he said it out loud. “Something or someone?” you tease, gentle as a nudge. He swallows. “Haven’t decided how brave I am yet.” “That’s fair,” you smile. “Food helps with bravery.” He looks at you again, more open now. “You, uh… You do this a lot? Eat with customers?” “No,” you say. “I eat after work a lot. Sometimes alone, sometimes with girls from the floor. Sometimes” - you glance at him - “with cowboys who say ma’am and don’t make me remind them of the rules.” He takes that in like he’s been handed a certificate he didn’t know he wanted. “I can keep sayin’ ma’am if it helps.” “It doesn’t hurt.”
The diner shows up like a lighthouse that never learned subtlety - buzzing sign, fogged windows, a bell that threatens to fall off the door with every swing. There’s a man at the counter with a newspaper, two teens in a booth destroying a basket of fries, a server refilling coffee like she owns the patent on it. You stop at the door and look up at him, close enough that he can see the small smudge of mascara under your eye and the clean skin beneath it. He likes this version more, he realizes. Not because it’s plainer, but because it feels like the right size. Like he could match it without borrowing courage he doesn’t have. “You ready?” you ask. He reaches for the handle and gets it open on the first try. “I am.” The bell gives its tired ring as you step into the warm, greasy light, and the night stays outside where it belongs. You greet the waitress like you’ve known her forever, and maybe you have - Rhett can’t tell. Maybe she knew your parents, brought your first milkshake with two straws, watched you stumble through a teenage date in this same booth. The thought warms him and needles him at the same time. He realizes he doesn’t know your history, not really - just the way you dance and how you look after a shift. And somehow that feels right. He doesn’t need the whole map tonight. He likes the not-knowing, the way your hello lands soft, the way the waitress smiles back like she’s been saving that smile for you. He lets the mystery breathe. He’s here for who you are across from him, not the footnotes.
The diner’s heat is the kind that fogs the windows and makes the ketchup move like molasses when you tip it. A bell wheezes you in; the server waves two menus like flags and points at a booth with a view of the pie case. Rhett holds the door, then the menu, then his breath until you’ve slid in and shrugged your hoodie off one shoulder. “Fries?” you ask, like a peace offering. “Patty melt,” he says, then amends, “and fries. If you’re, uh - if you want to steal some.” “I never steal fries,” you say, solemn. “I appropriate.” That gets a laugh out of him - quick, surprised, real. He puts his hat on the seat beside him, careful like it might break. When the server asks about drinks, you both say “coffee” at the same time and grin at the small, silly luck of it. The first minutes are clumsy in the way that good things start: too many half-sentences, a couple of “sorry, you go”, and one accidental toe-tap under the table that makes him go pink and you pretend not to notice. The coffee is exactly as advertised - terrible in a charming way - and you doctor it without apology. He drinks his black because that seems like the kind of person he’s supposed to be, then adds sugar on the second sip and doesn’t meet your eyes until he owns it.
“So,” he says, bracing a forearm on the table. “Do I - do I ask about work? Or is that like asking a magician about the trick?” “If you ask nice,” you smile. You take a fry and blow on it like you grew up respecting fire. “And I get to choose which trick to explain.” “Deal.” You prop your chin in your palm. “It’s not a sad story,” you begin, and watch the way his shoulders ease at that. “I like it. The job. I like the stage and the control and the cash in hand. I like that I write the rules and then enforce them. I like the girls - their hustle, their jokes, the way glitter ends up everywhere like a blessing and a curse.” He nods, listening for real. “And the part you don’t like?” “The hours,” you answer promptly. “Long nights. The two a.m. version of people who should’ve gone home an hour ago. My feet filing a formal complaint with my spine.” You grin. “But I soak them in Epsom salt and remind myself the rent’s early and no one’s telling me what to wear in the morning.” “Independence,” he says, tasting the word like coffee. “I get that.” “You?” you ask.
He rolls the sugar packet between his fingers. “Parents’ place,” he answers. “I work the farm - fences, feed runs, whatever’s broken today. And I ride bulls when the circuit’s close enough to make sense.” Your brows tip up. “That the one where you wait around six hours to be a legend for eight seconds?” He huffs, pleased you said it right. “On a good day.” You tap a fry against the plate like a metronome. “So we both climb on unpredictable animals for money while strangers shout, measure success in seconds and tips, and try not to get kicked in the head.” That gets him - an honest, belly-deep laugh that turns a few heads and makes the waitress grin from the counter. He leans back, palms up. “When you say it like that, we might be union.” “And we both stretch after,” you add, smug. “Epsom salt or ice packs. Occupational overlap.” “Add duct tape and prayer,” he says, and you snort into your milkshake. You’re grinning like you’re proud of the joke and a little proud of him, too, and he feels it land exactly where it should. He doesn’t know how much of this diner knows you - who watched you grow up, who remembers your first bad haircut - but he realizes it doesn’t matter. He knows the version across from him: smart, funny, beautiful in a way that’s more geometry than glitter; good at rules without being mean about them; brave enough to call the job what it is and gentle enough to let him ask. “Do you win much?” “Enough to keep tryin’.” He rolls a shoulder like it still knows the last fall. “Enough to be stubborn.”
For a moment, comfortable silence stretches between the two of you. You break it first. “Show me sometime,” you say, easy. “The ranch. The part where the day is chores and not applause.” “Deal,” he says, as if the word can stake a flag. He cuts the patty melt and pushes you a triangle without comment. You accept it without ceremony. He watches you in this lighting like it’s the first true picture he’s gotten: less paint, more person. You can see it settle in him - the preference he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. He tries anyway. “I like you like this,” he begins, then rushes to add, “Not to say I don’t - on the stage you’re- it’s… I just mean I like… this.” He gestures again - at your hoodie, your unguarded laugh, the way you dunk a fry and leave it there too long. “I told you in the alley,” you say, amused. “Food helps with the brave. And, sometimes it’s nice to be a person.” “I’m not here to save you. I’m… better at showing up,” he blurts, then winces at himself. “I mean - I am sure some men look at you and think… saving. I don’t. You don’t look like you need anything from me.” “That’s the point,” you say, and it lands between you, neat as silverware. “I chose this. I can choose something else later. I just don’t need a redemption arc to make it valid.” He looks relieved enough to grin. “Good. I’m short on arcs.” He’s still worrying the napkin edge when you tip your head, smile slow. You tap the rim of your coffee and lean just enough to make it private. “I don’t need a knight in shining armour, but I’m not saying no to a cowboy.” Color climbs his ears; his hand goes instinctively for a hat that isn’t on his head. He laughs, a little helpless. “I can do cowboy.” You nudge his boot under the table, grinning. “Then just keep showing up, cowboy.”
You trade small biographies over the grease paper: his brother, your favorite song to work to, his worst county fair, the best late-night breakfast order. He offers a ranch hack for sore feet; you offer a dancer’s stretch for his shoulder. You talk money in the frank way of people who’ve counted tips and gate shares: what it means to pay early, to have a little tucked away, to say no to bad offers because you can. He tells you he liked the way you set rules last week and how it made it easier to breathe. You tell him you noticed the way he kept his eyes up and how that made it easier to smile. You both laugh a lot - not the nervous kind this time, but the kind that loosens the screws in a long day. When the server swings by with the check, you slide it to his side with two fingers. “You said this one’s on you,” you remind, light. He nods and takes it like a privilege instead of a burden. “Next time’s yours.” You pretend not to flinch at the phrase, then let yourself un-pretend. “Next time,” you agree, simple as salt. He pays in cash because it feels cleaner. You add the tip, more than the math, because the coffee refills came before you needed them and that’s worth something.
Outside, the bell complains you’re leaving. The air has turned the kind of cool that makes breath visible in little ghosts. The street is a cutout of quiet storefronts and one cat in a window who thinks it runs the block. “Thank you,” he says, and it’s not for the fries. “Thank you,” you say back, and it’s not for the patty melt. You hook your thumbs in your hoodie pocket and look at him the way you did from the stage the first night - steady, choosing. “Walk me to the corner,” you tell him. “Then I’ll call a car. Long nights and all.” “Yes, ma’am,” he is smiling because the word sits easy now. You fall into step. The diner’s neon hum fades behind you, replaced by the small, ordinary sounds of a town putting itself to bed. At the corner, under the tired buzz of a streetlight, you stop and pull your phone from your pocket. He keeps a respectful step back and finds the moon like it’s a thing he can lean on. “Tuesday?” he asks, the question shaped like hope but trimmed down to fit. “Tuesday,” you confirm, thumb hovering over the ride button. “If the truck holds.” He laughs softly. “I’ll make it.” “Me too.” You meet his eyes. “Long nights,” you add, with a crooked grin. “Worth it,” he says, and means the fries and the laughter and the way you don’t need saving and the way he doesn’t, either. Your screen glows with the car’s ETA. You nod toward the diner once more, like sealing a pact with cheap coffee and good conversation, and then the two of you stand there in the honest dark, waiting for a set of headlights to bend around the block.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
They roll up loud and laughing, the kind of pack noise that makes the neon hum sound shy. Rhett comes because saying no would’ve meant explaining a thing he doesn’t know how to explain. He sits at the end of the booth like a man trying to be a smaller target, hat brim a little lower than usual, hands behaving. You clock the group on your first sweep: elbows, birthday energy, a pile of small bills like a dare. You clock him second - careful posture, the steadiness that opens a seam in the room. You do not clock the fact that you’ve seen him since. Mercy is a skill.
Onstage, you let the first song run through the crowd like warm weather. When you cross to their side, you give the table a professional smile and then, in passing, you let your gaze land on Rhett and stay there a beat too long. The boys explode - whoops, elbows, the immediate chorus of “ohhh, cowboy” - and he goes pink and tips the hat like he can hide inside it. You move on without breaking stride. You didn’t out him. You just lit him up. After your set, you make a quiet loop of the floor. At their booth, you drop a fresh stack of coasters and, with your now-famous two taps on his napkin, murmur, “You good, cowboy?” He doesn’t quite look at you. “Workin’ on it.” “Attaboy,” one friend crows. “He’s shy. Fix him.” You arch an eyebrow, amused instead of insulted, and the table loves you for it. The friend who’s clearly treasurer for the night slaps a wad of bills on the lacquer and grins at Rhett with the benevolence of a bad idea. “Private dance for the man in the hat,” he announces, nudging the cash like a puck. “On us. Don’t you dare say no.” Rhett winces. “Y’all -” “It’s a joke,” another says. “We’ll make him sweat.”
You catch Rhett’s eye and keep it, the way you do when a skittish colt needs a hand on the withers. “Only if you want,” your voice is plain enough to cut through the noise. He takes a breath you can see. “Okay,” he says. “Two songs.” The private room hasn’t changed: lamp, curtain, loveseat with opinions. What’s different is the way he stands just inside the doorway like a man who won a prize and isn’t sure he deserves it. You close the curtain and set the music - something with bones, not just bass. “New night, new rules,” you tell him, stepping into his space until you can smell the soap under his cologne. “Hands can go here and here.” You take his wrists and place his palms - one at the outside of your waist, over fabric; one high between your shoulder blades. “They stay where I put them unless I move them. Clear?” “Yes,” he says, voice low like he’s back in church. “And you breathe,” you add, because you’ve learned to say it out loud to men who forget. “Deal?” “Deal.”
You settle onto his lap the way you always do - measured, in control - then let the difference happen: his hands, warm through your clothes, tentative at first and then sure as he feels the permission hold. You move slow, the kind of slow that doesn’t dare the room so much as tame it. He’s polite even now, focus flicking to your eyes when you remind him, an automatic correction that makes you smile. Halfway through the first song, you feel him steady. His fingers spread just slightly at your waist, not grabbing, more like memorizing. Heat rises between you in the honest way heat does. When you lean in, his breath catches at your temple. You could make a spectacle; you don’t. You choose intimacy instead. Near the end of the second song, you bring your mouth close enough to his that the air between you turns into a held note. You can see the shape of his restraint, the way his jaw works once like he swallowed a yes. “Not here,” you whisper, and it isn’t a scold; it’s an agreement. The almost-kiss hangs there, warm and deliberate, its own kind of contact. He nods, exhale rough with relief. “Not here,” he echoes.
You draw back, let the last bars of the song do the work of easing you apart. Then, while his friends’ laughter leaks through the curtain and the next track starts up somewhere out in the bright, you reach into the pocket of your robe and pull a small, folded rectangle. Plain, no glitter. You take his hand, turn it palm up, and set the paper there like a pressed flower. “For when it’s not here,” you say. He looks at the note like it might go off, then closes his fingers around it and tucks it quick into the inside pocket of his denim, like a man who knows how to keep a thing safe. “Okay,” he says, a little stunned. “Okay.” You smooth the front of his shirt with both hands, a practical gesture turned ceremonial. “You were good,” you tell him, the kind of praise that means respect and not performance. “Felt like it,” he admits, shy and pleased. When you pull the curtain back, noise slaps at the quiet you made. His friends are already halfway to a victory parade. “There he is!” the treasurer crows. “Cowboy survived!”
You give the table a showman’s curtsy and, with the same generosity you showed inside, throw the ribbing bone they’re hungry for. “He was a perfect gentleman,” you announce, all innocence, which somehow gets them louder. Rhett puts his hat back on and learns the limits of his grin. It refuses to be small. He tips you a thank-you that’s just for you, then endures the back slaps with surprising good humor, one hand staying near that inside pocket like he can feel the paper through the denim. On your way past, you tap his napkin twice, the way you do. “Eat something,” you tell him, as if that’s all you’ve given him tonight. He nods once. Later, when the hoots have thinned and the neon looks tired again, he’ll slip outside and, with the soft care he brings to everything that matters, unfold the paper to find your name and a number written in clean, sure strokes - no hearts, no stage-name, no flourish. Just a line between here and wherever you decide “not here” turns into. For now, the room keeps spinning and the boys keep laughing, and he sits there anchor-still, smiling like a man who just got handed the next chapter.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
He texts first, the next afternoon, thumbs big on a small screen, backspacing like he’s trying to rope a sentence and make it behave.
Hey. It’s Rhett. Was wonderin’ if I could take you on a proper date. Not here. Not the diner. Day off. Nice place. I’ll pick you up. Flowers and everything. If you want.
You let him sit in his own nerves for seven minutes that feel like seven miles, then:
I’d like that. Thursday’s my night off. Pick me up at 7? Allergic to lilies. Anything else is fair game. And I own a nice dress. Just so you know.
He stares at that last line for a good long while, grins at the truck door like it’s a friend, and replies:
7 it is. No lilies. I’ll try to be worthy of the dress.
He shows up on time, freshly showered and fighting his hair into a decision, dress shirt tucked into ironed pants. The truck is cleaner than it’s been in months; the boots are polished; the shirt is white and somehow makes him look both taller and younger. He’s got a small bouquet of not-lilies - sunflowers and pale roses and a little wild green like a field snuck into the arrangement.
When you open the door, he forgets how to talk. Third version of you. Not the stage and not the hoodie. The dress is black with a soft shine, cut to skim, not shout; a neckline that says yes, I know and a hem that says keep up. Your hair is down in a way that looks expensive and effortless even if it was one and not the other. Your makeup is evening, not armor. “Wow,” he says. Then, realizing “wow” is not a sentence, tries again. “You look- I mean- it’s unfair, is what it is.” You laugh, delighted. “I’ll take unfair.” He remembers the flowers and thrusts them forward like a man delivering good news. “For you. No lilies.” “They’re perfect,” you say, and you mean the bouquet and also the way he’s blushing like compliments are a bucking chute. You tuck the flowers into a vase by the door, slip a small wrap over your shoulders, and let him offer his arm like this is the version of the night it wants to be. He opens the truck door for you with the solemnity of a ceremony, then circles to his side and steadies his breath. The restaurant is the kind of place with linen and whispers, the kind of place he Google-mapped twice and called once to make sure he wasn’t supposed to wear a tie. He keeps sneaking looks at you at stoplights. “You’re just- I can’t even come up with a new adjective,” he admits. “I used ‘pretty’ five times in my head and it ain’t enough.” “Try ‘devastating’,” you say, playful. “Devastating,” he repeats, pleased. “There we go.”
Inside, you let the room notice you and then let it go. The host smiles differently at people who know how to wear a night; you two wear it well. Rhett pulls your chair; you touch his hand as you sit, a quick thanks that settles him. The menu is a map of places neither of you have been. He scans it like a man reading weather. “What’s a reduction?” he asks. “Sauce that had a long day,” you tell him, and he laughs, grateful. He orders steak because it’s honest; you order fish because it comes with a lemon butter that has you at hello. The server leaves; the candles flicker; your eyes do that soft-spark thing that got him the first night he saw you. “So,” you say, propping your chin in your hand. “Tell me something you don’t say in a loud room.” He thinks, thumb worrying the edge of a napkin. “I’ve got a favorite horse and a favorite cow,” he admits, voice low. “Don’t tell the others.” Your mouth lifts. “Names.” “June,” he says, already smiling. “Mare that pretends she doesn’t like me ’til I’m halfway to the gate, then follows like a shadow. And Button - black-and-white cow with a spot like a thumbprint on her nose. Head-butts the grain scoop if I’m slow.” “That’s extremely cowboy,” you say, delighted. “I’ll keep your secret from the union.”
For a moment, you are quite. “Also, it’s perfect,” you smile. “I like labeling things in my fridge. Also not very rock and roll.” “Bet it’s straight lines,” he says, the admiration more obvious than he intends. “It is,” you confess, amused. “And I don’t have a tragic backstory, by the way. In case you were bracing for a savior role.” “I retired from saving,” he says. “Not very good at it. I prefer… showing up. With flowers, when I can.” “Noted,” you say, pleased. “I like this version of you.” “The one that remembers deodorant and uses a napkin?” He gestures at his lap, where the linen is obeying. “The one that looks at me like I’m a person and a miracle at the same time,” you correct, gentle. “It’s flattering without being greedy.” He goes pink again. “Can’t help it,” he admits. “You walk into a room and my vocabulary falls apart.” “Then say simple things,” you suggest. “Simple is nice.” “Simple is you look beautiful,” he says immediately. “Simple is I’m real glad you said yes. Simple is I might not eat because smiling is taking up all my face.” “Eat,” you say, laughing. “We’ll practice multitasking.”
The food is very good in the way expensive food often is - small miracles that make you feel like you’re in on a secret. You trade bites across the table, your fork knocking his in a little clang that feels like good luck. He tells you about the last fair where a storm rolled in sideways and everyone smelled like rain and adrenaline; you tell him about the choreography that only works with a certain song because your body learned the math of it. When the server refills your water, she glances at the way his eyes hold steady on your face, then leaves two extra dessert spoons like a blessing. You split a crème brûlée, the crack of sugar loud enough to make you grin at each other like kids.
He never quite stops complimenting you, but he gets better at weaving it in. “The way your hair catches the candle,” he says, offhand, like a man pointing out a constellation. “The way you make that dress look like it was built by an engineer.” “The way you listen like you’ve got nowhere better to be.” You volley back, not out of obligation but because he deserves to hear it. “The way you mind your hands.” “The way you don’t pretend to know what you don’t.” “The way you say please to the server like she’s your aunt.” By the time the check comes, the room feels like it’s shrunk to the size of your table. He reaches for the leather folder with a confidence that’s new and tidy; you let him, because this was his offer and it matters to him. Outside, the evening has softened around the edges. He walks you to the truck like the ground might move and he wants to be sure it doesn’t. He helps you in, then pauses with his hand on the door, looking up at you like he’s trying to memorize a night from bottom to top. “I had a real good time,” he tells you, simple as you asked. “Me too,” you say. “No notes.”
The drive back is easy. He turns the radio low. You talk about nothing on purpose: a billboard with a typo, a stray dog with a sweater, the moon being nosy. At your place, he kills the engine and then remembers he’s supposed to do something besides stare. He comes around, opens your door, offers his hand as you step down. You take it, not for balance but for the pleasure of it. On the sidewalk, you both stand there, politeness and wanting threading a neat border. “Thank you for tonight,” you say, and it means for the flowers and the chair and the way he didn’t rush the evening to prove it was one. “Thank you for saying yes,” he means for the third version and the way you let him see it. You both know what a kiss would feel like here; you both decide to keep it for later, an expensive thing you’re saving for the exact right hour. Instead, he squeezes your hand once, careful and sure. You squeeze back. “Text me when you’re home,” you say. “Yes, ma’am,” he answers, soft. He waits until your light goes on, then looks at the passenger seat where your wrap sat folded and thinks about the three versions of you - stage, hoodie, dress - and how each one is true and how lucky he is to be invited to learn the rest.
On the drive, he sends a single message at a red light, punctuation considered like it might tip the balance too far:
Home in ten. Tonight was perfect.If you want, I’d like to do it again.
When the swoop of your reply lands - simple and sweet, me too - he grins into the dark like a man with a good secret, and lets the road carry him the rest of the way.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
It is another Tuesday and he keeps to his usual corner - hat low, hands behaving. You clock him on your sweep and, when you pass the rail, you let a smile ghost over your mouth and lean in just enough for only him to hear. “Meet me after,” you murmur, breath warm against the brim. Two taps on his napkin. Then you’re gone, back into the current. He watches you work the room like weather - steady, self-possessed, kind when it’s earned. He’s getting good at the part where he lets the job be the job. When a floor host touches your elbow and points you toward a private room, he feels the instinctive flinch and names it for what it is - instinct, not instruction. He drains his water, texts his buddies some excuse why he doesn’t show up to the bar tonight, and steps outside for a pocket of air while the curtain falls behind you. The night smells like rainfall that changed its mind. He stands under the eave, counts his breaths, and thinks about fence posts: you set them straight, they hold. When you emerge later - robe knotted, hair fluffed back into order - he doesn’t ask anything with his eyes. He lifts two fingers in a hello. You answer with a tiny nod that says: Ten minutes.
The back lot is a choked gravel square behind the club, all dumpsters and the long hum of a tired highway. Ten minutes become twelve. Then you appear with your tote and a hoodie tugged over whatever the evening required. You point at his truck with your chin. “Drive?” you ask. “Yes, ma’am.” It’s muscle memory, the way he takes the county road that loses its lines and the town’s last streetlight in a quarter mile. You roll the window down an inch and let the cool air rinse the glitter off your skin. A field opens to the left - black ocean, crickets for white noise - and he noses the truck onto the shoulder. “Trunk bar,” he says, deadpan, fishing two cold bottles from a small cooler behind the seat. “Top-shelf: domestic.” You laugh, twist the caps, hand him one. “To long nights,” you offer. He clinks. “To surviving them.”
You climb into the back seat rather than the bed - warmer, quieter, the kind of private that isn’t hiding. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over your knees without commentary. In the dim cab light, you look like the in-between version he’s starting to love best - cheeks bare of stage paint, eyes still sharp from work, mouth soft. “Okay,” you start, settling sideways, one knee tucked under you. “Rules and realities.” He takes a breath. “I don’t mind the work,” he says, careful and plain. “I knew it the first night. I knew it when I asked you out. It doesn’t make me jealous. And even if it did - that’d be mine to manage. I don’t have the right to criticize how you make your living. I won’t.” Your shoulders ease. “Thank you.” “I won’t ask details,” he adds. “If I’m there and it starts to feel…loud in my head, I’ll step outside, take a lap, text you ‘smoke break.’ That’s me saying I’m okay, just getting air.”
“Good phrase,” you praise. “Okay. My side: I don’t talk details, either. Not because I’m hiding, but because I keep the job in its box. If you’re in the room, I still work. If you’d rather I don’t take privates while you’re there, say so and I’ll try to steer clear. But if it happens, it’s work, and when that curtain opens, it’s over.” He nods. “I can handle that.” You tap the bottle against your knee. “I won’t date on shift. After work, public places, and no asking me to bend house rules. No showing up drunk with your friends and making me your party trick.” He huffs a quick laugh. “Fair. I won’t bring the boys. If I come, I come alone, quiet, and I tip like someone raised me right.” “You already do,” you say, and then, gentler, “And I won’t take your money.” He blinks. “For the floor, sure. For… more than that? No.” “For dances,” you clarify. “Now that there is an us. If you need the distance of the ritual someday, we can talk. But I’d rather keep money out of our…thing. You want to support me? Feed me fries.” “I can do fries,” he is smiling, memories of food after a shift edged across his face.
“Next one,” you add, “if I text ‘long night,’ that’s code for: I need sleep, not questions. You text ‘home’ when you get there. I text ‘home’ when I get there.” He nods again, taking it in like fence posts sunk to the frost line. “Deal.” You drink, let the quiet sit. Crickets, far-off semi, the soft tick of the cooling engine. After a minute, you glance over, a little sideways-smile. “And since we’re doing honesty: I like what I do. The stage, the control, the cash in hand, the girls I work with - the hustle, the jokes. It suits me right now.” “Good,” he says, just as plain. “I like that you like it.” “I’m also tired,” you finish, a small shrug. “The hours pull at me. I don’t want to be a vampire forever.” He waits, open for whatever you’re willing to put in the space. “I didn’t make a big thing of it,” you go on, “but I did a two-year program at the community college - bookkeeping and payroll. I like straight lines, numbers that balance, lists that end. It’s…quiet control. I’ve been doing books part-time for a friend’s salon. Thinking about looking for more of that in the mornings. Feed store, co-op, maybe the diner. Nothing fancy. Just work that lets me sleep at midnight sometimes.” His smile warms from the inside. “That sounds like you,” he smiles. “The you in the hoodie. The you with labels on the fridge.” You nudge his boot with your toe. “Don’t mock my labels.” “I’d never,” he says, mock solemn. Then, softer: “If you want introductions, I can ask around. Co-op runs lean but honest. My aunt does inventory at the hardware store; I can put your name in her ear. Only if you want. I won’t push.” “I might take you up on that,” you tell him “When I say I’m ready.” “Yes, ma’am.”
You rest your head back against the seat and look at him - really look, as if the truck light is new sun. “Thank you for letting the job be the job,” you say. “For not trying to rescue me from something I chose.” He tips the bottle toward you. “Thank you for telling me the plan before I grew one for you.” You clink again, easy. The rules sit between you not like a wall but like a map you both can read. A train moans somewhere far enough away to be romantic. He shifts, offers his shoulder without making a speech of it. You slide closer until your temple finds the place it belongs, and his jacket slides higher over your knees. No kiss - just breath syncing, the small choreography of two people who intend to keep showing up. After a while, you ask, “Saturday market? Sunflowers and pretzels?” He grins into the dark. “I’ll bring cash and a tote bag like a man with intentions.” “And Tuesday,” you add, a little wry, “I’ll still be at work.” “And I’ll still be polite,” he states. “And I’ll still text ‘smoke break’ if I need air.” “And I’ll still text ‘home’ when I get there.” “Me too.” You fall quiet again, the good kind. The beer bottles sweat into the cup holders. The field breathes. Somewhere beyond the windshield, the road waits to carry you back whenever you’re ready. Not yet. An hour later he eases to the curb outside your place, no ceremony. The engine ticks, the porch light hums. He pulls you into a quiet hug; you press a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. It’s nothing - polite, small. It’s everything - an outline of a later. A promise said under its breath: not here, not yet, but soon.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
The porch light is an old interrogator - too bright, too honest. Rhett eases the door shut anyway, boots set quiet on the mat, hat in his hand like an apology. The kitchen smells like coffee that has given up and hay that never will. Perry sits at the table with a ledger open and a beer sweating a ring onto a feed bill. He doesn’t look up right away. He doesn’t have to. “You’ve been out a lot,” Perry says, casual as a weather report. “What’s going on? New woman?” Rhett sets the hat on the counter, takes the beer Perry slid over without asking. “Maybe.” “That a yes?” “Workin’ on it.” Perry finally looks at him, mouth tipped into that familiar, half-wary grin. “You look like you found the good kind of trouble.” Rhett snorts, takes a drink, lets the bottle buy him a second. “Met her a few towns over.” “Bar?” “Club.” He lets the word sit there, plain. “She dances.” Perry’s brows go up a notch - not judgment, just recalibration. “Okay.” “That’s it?” Rhett asks, a little defensive without meaning to be. “What were you expectin’, a hymn? A judgment?” Perry closes the ledger and pushes it aside. “You like her?” “Yeah,” Rhett says, and the word sounds like it has roots. “I do.” “She like you back?” “She keeps meetin’ me where I am,” he states, thinking of diner coffee and your hoodie and the way you said meet me after like a secret that knew how to behave. “We set rules. We talk like adults. It’s…easy.”
Perry nods like that was the makes-sense part. “And the job?” “It’s her work,” Rhett says, shoulders tightening, then loosening on purpose. “I knew it from the start. I’m not trying to fix it. I’m not… jealous. If it gets loud in my head, I step outside. We got a code for it.” He huffs. “I ain’t a teenager.” “Not for a minute now,” Perry agrees, dry. He leans back, chair creaking. “You worried what Ma and Dad’ll say.” “Little bit.” Rhett rolls the bottle between his palms. “Dad’ll grumble. Ma’ll… I don’t know. Pray creative.” He stares at the condensation on the table. “Part of me doesn’t care. Part of me still does, and I hate that I do.” “Caring what they think ain’t the same as lettin’ it drive the truck,” Perry offers. “You can care and still keep your hands on the wheel.” He tips his chin. “You treated her right?” “Yeah.” “She treat you right?” “Yeah.” “Then we’re halfway to done.” Perry’s voice stays kind, a thing he only let out in kitchens after midnight. “Small town’s gonna talk no matter who you bring home. Might as well be someone who makes you less stupid than usual.” Rhett laughs, head dropping. “She does that.” “Good.” Perry reaches for the ledger, then doesn’t. “Look, Dad’s gonna be Dad. He thinks the sun comes up because he’s got fences to walk. But he ain’t blind, and he ain’t cruel. Ma’s got more room in her heart than she lets on. You don’t owe ‘em a confession. You owe ‘em the truth when it matters.” “When it matters,” Rhett repeats. Perry studies him. “You scared of bein’ the punchline?” “Little.” Rhett shrugs. “Boys see me there, they hoot. Think it’s a joke to buy me a dance. It was funny ‘til it wasn’t. Then it was… somethin’ else.” He feels the small, private weight of your number in his wallet even now. “She’s not a joke.” “I figured,” Perry says. “You don’t bring jokes into the kitchen.”
Silence stretches a comfortable inch. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the house, the old clock argues with itself. “She likes the job,” Rhett begins after a while. “Says it fits. The hours don’t, though. She’s thinkin’ about mornin’ work. Bookkeepin’. She did a program. Numbers and straight lines. Sounds like… peace, I guess.” Perry’s mouth curves. “That does sound like peace. You offer to ask around?” “I said I would. When she asks me to.” “Good.” Perry taps the ledger. “Co-op always needs somebody who can count better than Frank. I’ll put a word in a pocket, keep it there ‘til you say.” “Thanks.” “Don’t thank me.” Perry’s eyes go softer than his voice. “You’ve been walking around here like your boots got a secret. You’re lighter, even when you’re tired. That’s rare. Don’t throw it away ‘cause you’re tryin’ to make it make sense to other people.”
Rhett looks at his brother, that old seesaw of irritation and gratitude settling on the right side. “You ever gonna say something unhelpful?” “Probably by sunup,” Perry jokes. “For now I’m on a streak.” They drink a while in the quiet they’d been raised on. Rhett sets his empty down and traces the water ring with a thumb. “If I bring her by,” he says, casual as he can manage, “you gonna help run interference?” Perry’s grin comes quick and mean in the loving way. “I’ll keep Dad on fence talk and Ma on pie. You do the rest.” “She’s… three versions,” Rhett tells him, surprising himself with the confession. “Stage. Hoodie. Dress. All of ‘em true. I like ‘em all. I might like the hoodie most.” “Most men do, once they learn better,” Perry says. He pushes his chair back, stretches his back until it pops. “You look like you could sleep.” “I could.” “Text her ‘home’?” Perry asks, too knowing. Rhett’s ears go pink. “Yeah.” “Good.” Perry gathers the ledger, wipes the table, makes the kitchen look like a kitchen again. At the doorway, he pauses. “Hey.” Rhett looks up. “I’m glad it’s easy,” Perry says. “Life’s hard all by itself. Let something be easy.” Rhett feels that land where it is supposed to. “Yeah.” Perry nods once, a benediction disguised as a habit. “Night, little brother.” “Night.” The house settles as Perry’s footsteps go down the hall. Rhett pulls out his phone and types home, hits send, and stares at the delivered dot like it is a star he hasn’t noticed before. Then he puts the hat on the hook, turns off the porch light, and lets the dark be kind for once.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
Saturday shows up with a blue sky and a breeze that smells like peaches and kettle corn. He gets there early, tote bag folded into his back pocket like an intention, and watches the farmer’s market set itself up the way a barn wakes - slow, practiced, cheerful. You arrive with your hair a little messy and sunglasses you push up when you spot him. No stage, no heels. A cotton dress that swishes when you walk and sneakers that have seen some things. He’s a little gone before you even say hi. “You brought a tote,” you say, pleased. “I said I had intentions.” He offers his arm like a gentleman at a county fair. “Sunflowers and pretzels?” “Sunflowers and pretzels,” you confirm, and it becomes a plan.
You move like you’ve done this together for years - checking tomatoes for a little give, tasting a slice of peach off a knife, debating the merits of honey vs. maple syrup for ten unnecessary minutes because talking about small things feels like a luxury. He pays for the sunflowers; you slip cash to the pretzel guy like you’ve been trained in sleight-of-hand. He ties the bag handles into a tidy square knot without thinking. You notice. At the hot-sauce table you fish a few bills from your hoodie pocket; a fleck of glitter winks on the top note. Rhett squints, amused. “Is that… glitter?” “Occupational hazard,” you murmur. He opens his mouth to ask where from and you tip closer, conspiratorial: “This exact bill was stuffed in my bra last night.” He folds in half laughing, a helpless, wheezy sound that makes the vendor grin and throw in a sample. You wait for him to stop laughing and then smile at him. “Dinner at mine?” you ask, casual as the breeze. “I’m not an outside-clothes person. I want to change into easy.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, so soft you almost miss it. He keeps finding excuses to look at you and keeps being surprised that the excuses exist: the way your ring finger taps while you count change; the way you tilt your head when you listen to the old beekeeper explain last spring’s blossoms; the way you break a pretzel, hand him the bigger half, and pretend you didn’t. After a few hours, you thread your fingers through his and tug him toward the truck. The drive hums easy; the quiet fits.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
Your place is a story he didn’t expect. Not fancy - soft. Paintings of lemons and tidepools. A ridiculous number of throw pillows. A bookshelf where romance paperbacks sit next to a worn copy of a bookkeeping manual with sticky notes like flags. There’s a candle that smells like clean laundry and the ocean pretending to be close. On the fridge, labels. On everything. He takes off his boots at the door without being asked and lines them up straight. “You can laugh,” you say, following his gaze to the fridge. “It makes my brain quiet.” “I would never mock your labels,” he says, sincerity and fondness wrapped together. He wants to live in this room. He wants to carry it around like a lucky coin. “I’m going to switch to easy clothes,” you tell him. “You okay to chop?” “I’m elite at chop,” he answers, and you grin like you’ll be grading.
You disappear down the hallway and he lets himself look around like a respectful thief. A plant hangs in a macramé sling and somehow thrives. A small bowl by the door holds keys and a tiny seashell. There’s a framed photo of women backstage - lipstick smiles, glitter caught like stars - everyone laughing. It makes him want to be gentle with the whole world. When you come back, his heart does a reckless thing he doesn’t try to stop. “Easy” is a soft knit set and socks that don’t match. Your hair’s down, and your makeup is exactly none. You look like the person he keeps falling for in smaller and smaller increments. “Okay?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious. “Perfect,” he tries, and it’s the easiest word he’s ever chosen. He clears his throat. “What are we… uh… what am I chopping?” “Garlic, onion, zucchini.” You set a cutting board in front of him, slide a knife his way, and turn on music with bones - something old, warm, and a little scratchy. “We’ll make pasta with tomatoes and basil. Lemon butter if we behave.” He moves the way hands learn - steady, efficient, careful. You rinse cherry tomatoes in a colander and steal pretzel bits between steps. You cook like you dance: with control and permission. He keeps waiting for the moment to make itself complicated. It doesn’t.
“Tell me one small thing your brother does that would surprise people,” you say, passing him the basil. “Perry quilts in the winter,” he gives his answer, straight-faced. “Grandma taught him. Keeps a box of scraps under his bed, names the patterns - Log Cabin, Flying Geese - like they’re horses. Pretends it’s practical, but it’s how he stays sane when the weather pens him in.” You light up. “That’s perfect. Bet his seams are straight enough to measure with a ruler.” “He’d deny it and then fix your hem in under a minute,” Rhett says, fond. “And you?” He tips his head. “One small thing.” “I name my plants like I’m giving them job titles,” you tell him, pointing. “Accounts Receivable. Payroll. Vacation Day.” He laughs so hard he leans on the counter. “You kill me.” “Not before dinner,” you say, but you’re laughing, too.
Garlic hits the pan and the kitchen smells like the kind of home he didn’t realize he wanted. You shoulder-bump him to reach the salt; he catches your elbow out of habit and then lets go because permission matters. The timer for the pasta clicks down in the background, the sun slants in through blinds, and a dust mote drifts like a lazy planet through the light. He sets the knife down. You look up at the exact same moment. The air tilts. “Can I-” he starts, and doesn’t finish because you’re already stepping closer. “Yes,” you say, a soft yes that feels like you pulled it from a warm pocket. The kiss is the opposite of the club - the opposite of noise. It’s the press of mouths that intend to keep being kind in the morning. He breathes out like he’s been holding something for years. Your fingers slip into his hair, his palm anchors at your waist over the soft knit, and the whole room narrows to the exact square of space you’re making together.
The pan pops.
You both jump apart, laugh, and then sprint in the same direction. He shakes the skillet off the heat while you fan the smoke alarm with a dish towel. The pasta timer starts yelling because it refuses to be ignored. You rescue the noodles; he rescues the garlic; the smoke alarm gives one last chirp of judgment and calms down. When the chaos settles, you lean against the counter, cheeks pink from laughing, and he looks like he’d sign a contract for a hundred more nights just like this. “Domestic disaster level: mild,” you declare. “Dinner salvage level: high.” He tastes the sauce with a wooden spoon, considers it like a judge at a fair, and nods. “It’s good.” “You sure you’re not just butter-drunk?” you ask. “Little bit,” he admits. “Also-” He gestures to the room. “-this.” “This?” you prompt. “This,” he says, and it means: you in socks; your kitchen that forgives; the way his jacket is still on your chair like a claim you both understand without words, the kiss and his hands on your waist. You plate the pasta into bowls that don’t match on purpose. He grates too much cheese; you don’t stop him. At the small table, you sit on the same side without talking about it, knees knocking like a secret handshake. He keeps catching himself smiling into his fork. “This is easy,” you state, half-wonder, half-decision. “Let’s keep it that way,” he answers, like a vow he can actually keep.
After dinner, you label a jar for leftovers - Pasta, today - and he laughs so hard he has to lean on the counter again. You set the jar in the fridge and stand there with the door open, doing nothing on purpose, letting the cold curl around your ankles. He steps up behind you, not crowding, just present, and you close the door on two people who, somehow, are already making space for each other. “Walk me to the couch,” you say, teasing. “Yes, ma’am,” he is playing along. You bring the sunflowers to the coffee table because they belong with the evening. He brings the pretzel bag because dessert is a state of mind. The music spins another old song, the kind that understands a day can be simple and still mean everything. He thinks - without panic, without apology - I could do this forever. You glance over like you heard it anyway, then curl your feet under you and hand him the remote like it’s trust in plastic form. The food nearly burned, the kiss didn’t, the labels are straight, and somewhere, at the back of his mind, a fence post sets just right in firm ground.
You kiss again on the couch during a movie that is not much more than background noise - unhurried, the kind that feels like you’ve already agreed to be kind to one another tomorrow. When you pull back, you’re both smiling like you can’t help it. “Stay?” you ask. “Just sleep.” “Yes, ma’am,” full of relief and something softer in it. He borrows a T-shirt you toss him and tries not to look too proud about the way it smells like your laundry soap. You brush your teeth side by side, bumping elbows on purpose. In bed, he lies on his back until you roll into the crook of his shoulder; then his arm goes around you like it’s always known where to be. No rush. No noise. He texts home out of habit, then grins when your phone glows and you whisper, “You are.”
Morning shows up kind and late. You sleep in. When you finally drift to the kitchen, you make coffee the way you like and he scrambles eggs the way his brother does when he’s trying to fix a day before it starts. There’s leftover pasta; there’s a half peach from the market; there’s laughter about the smoke alarm and a second kiss that tastes like coffee. The day isn’t a plan - it just happens the way good days do. You read him bits from the truly terrible blurbs on your romance shelf. He insists on watering Accounts Receivable and Vacation Day (“They look thirsty,” he says, solemn), and you pretend to fill out a write-up for his file when he folds the throw blanket into a perfect rectangle. You teach him your favorite stretch for his shoulder; he teaches you how to tie the square knot he puts on feed bags and, now, tote handles. At some point you both nap and don’t apologize.
Late afternoon tilts toward evening. You glance at the clock and make a face. “Long night,” you say, apologetic. “I gotta go get ready.” He nods, already reaching for his hat. “I’ll clear out.” “Or -” you offer, and you’re casual, like this isn’t a big, bright thing - “pack up whenever you want and lock behind you? Here.” You take the key from the little bowl by the door, slide it off the ring with the seashell, and drop it into his palm. “Spare. Put it back on the hook when you go?” He sits down like gravity remembered him. For a beat he just looks at the key in his hand, then up at you. Whatever he was going to say gets replaced by a quiet, “Okay.”
You kiss him once at the door - soft, quick, a promise with manners - and disappear down the hall with your “easy clothes” already in a heap and your work bag in your hand. He stands there for a full minute, letting the trust settle. Then he tucks the key onto the counter so he won’t pocket it by accident and rolls his sleeves. He cleans like he grew up being raised by kitchen tables: dishes washed, counters wiped, stove de-buttered, the sink shined until it shows him the good kind of tired. He finds your tiny compost bin and empties it, takes out the trash, and leaves a fresh liner like he’s trying to speak your language in chores. He folds a stray sweatshirt, straightens the stack of mail, and sets the sunflowers where the light loves them most. He drives out for another little bouquet - daisies this time, stubbornly cheerful - and a neat card from the drugstore with no picture, just heavy paper that feels like it means what it says. Back at your place, he writes slow, tongue caught at the corner like a schoolkid making sure the lines don’t lean.
Hey.
Rodeo’s next Saturday. I’d like you there if you want to be. My folks will be around, and I want to talk about that - what would feel good for you, what wouldn’t. No pressure, truly. We can do afterward-only, we can bail at first sign of nonsense, we can skip it entirely and share a basket of fries.
Let me know what works.
P.S. Kitchen’s clean (I hope I did it right). I put the key back on the hook. Text me “home” when you’re off.
- R.
He props the note against the vase, right where your eye will land when you set your bag down. He hangs the spare on the little hook by the door, checks the lock twice, and leaves with that good ache in his chest - the one that means mine without meaning owed. Hours later, you come in on quiet feet, the day still humming in your bones. You drop your bag, reach to push the flowers into the light, and see the card waiting there like a heartbeat. You read the lines once, then again. Something warm and steady unfurls low in your chest - the precise relief of being chosen and consulted in the same breath. You touch the note with two fingers, smile at the lemon-clean counter you didn’t leave, glance at the hook with the key, and feel the room tilt - just a little - toward home.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
He parks under the busted streetlight again, engine off, radio whispering something old. When the back door of the club swings open and you step out - hoodie, tote, makeup mostly gone - he feels that familiar loosening in his chest. “You want fries?” he asks, holding up a greasy paper bag like an offering. “You read my mind,” you say, climbing in. “Hi.” “Hi.” He pulls away from the curb and takes the long road out of town, the one that runs past the shuttered feed mill and the water tower that never quite got repainted. You roll the window down two fingers’ worth and let the night rinse off your hair.
He parks by the old overlook, where the highway turns into a ribbon of red taillights. You kick your shoes off and tuck one foot under you, easy. He opens the bag and takes serious custody of the salt packets. “Serious question,” you tease, stealing a fry before he salts them. “Did you buy extra?” “I bought emotionally,” he tells you. “So yes.” You laugh, and then it is quiet in the good way, the two of you working through the fries like a team with discipline. He keeps glancing at you and then away, like headlights. When he finally sets the bag aside and flattens his palms on his jeans, you know he is finding his words. “It makes me worried sometimes,” he confesses, honest right out of the gate. “And I hate that it does, because it’s a job like any other -” He tugs a sheepish grin. “- just with fewer clothes.” You snort so hard you slap his arm with the back of your hand. “Okay, hallmark. Put that on a mug.” “I’ll get you two” he grins, relieved that you are laughing. He sobers a notch. “I don’t want to be the guy who makes you manage my feelings about your work. That’s on me. If it gets loud in my head, I’ll do the smoke-break thing. Step out. Breathe. Text you I’m okay.” You nod, a small, approving hum. “And I’ll keep the job in its box. No details. If you’re there and a private comes up, I’ll take it if I want it, pass if I don’t. If there’s a night you’d rather not watch the room be the room, tell me and I’ll meet you after. I like that we can say things out loud.” “Me too.” He fiddles with the straw wrapper, then looks up, steady. “I know it’s early. But I like you. I want this to last. I want you to meet my folks - if you’re up for it. I’ll tell them ahead of time. Set it up right. No pressure on you. If it’s weird, we bail. If it’s fine, we stay. We’ll figure it out.”
You hold his gaze, feel the careful sincerity of it land where it should. “Whatever you need from me,” you say. “Tell me. I’ll do it. And I’d love to see you work, by the way. The rodeo. It feels fair, me seeing your world, since you’ve seen mine.” He blows out a breath he’d been pretending he wasn’t holding. “Okay. Saturday. I go on around three. We can meet after the chute dust settles, do the rounds if you want. Or I can run interference.” “Around three. We can meet after the chute dust settles, do the rounds if you want. Or I can run interference,” he offers. “I’m good with whatever,” you answer. “And the out if we need it.” “Always,” he promises, immediate. “We’ll have a code. If you use ‘weather,’ that means you need a porch and air.” “Copy,” you tease, amused. “And if you say ‘fence post,’ I’ll pull you out of a feed talk with a fake call.” He leans back, lets the headrest take some weight. Below you, a semi mutters along the highway. Above, the moon does its best to mind its business. “Also,” you add, a touch tentative, “can I cash in that offer to ask around? For morning work. Bookkeeping. Co-op, hardware, feed store - whatever’s decent. The late nights are… doable. But I’d like more days that end before midnight.” “Absolutely,” he blurts - too fast - then reins it in. “I’ll talk to my aunt at the hardware store. And Perry knows the co-op’s manager. We’ll keep it quiet until you give the go. You tell me what you want me to tell them.” “Thank you,” you murmur. “I like asking you for help and not feeling like it costs me something.” “It never will,” he promises, plain. You nudge his knee with yours. “You’re very good at the grown-up talk.” “I practiced on the drive,” he admits. “To the bag of fries.” You reach over and set your hand over his, palm to palm, the easy, steady fit you were both getting used to. “For what it’s worth,” you say, “you’re allowed to have feelings about my job. You’re just not allowed to make them my problem.” He barks a laugh. “Fair enough.”
You share the last fries like they are witnesses. He tells you about a stubborn calf that figured out how to unlatch the pen and made a nightly habit of joyriding the pasture. You tell him about the new girl on the floor who choreographed to ‘70s soul and made even the bouncers smile. He listens with his whole attention; you give yours back the same way. When the milkshakes are gone and the paper bag is flat and defeated between you, he turns the key just enough to bring the radio back. A soft song comes on, one of the ones with bones. He doesn´t move to start the engine. Neither do you.
“Saturday,” he says, like a promise you can fold in half and put in your pocket. “Saturday,” you echo. He smiles. “And between now and then, I’ll ask around. Aunt Jo first. She’ll grill me. She’s mean in a loving way.” “I can handle mean in a loving way,” you smile. “I have glitter on my resume.” He laughs, tips your hand to his mouth, and presses a brief, grateful kiss to your knuckles - old-fashioned courtesy that never quite went out of him. Then he starts the truck, and you let the road carry you back toward town, toward keys in bowls and labels on jars and the feeling that this thing you are making might actually stay easy because you are both working at it. At your door, he doesn’t rush the goodbye. He touches your cheek once, light, like punctuation rather than a paragraph. “Text me when you’re home,” you say on reflex, then roll your eyes at yourself. “You are home.” He grins. “I’ll text you anyway.” “Do. And tell Aunt Jo I make a mean spreadsheet.” “Yes, ma’am.” You steal one more quick kiss - warm, certain, the kind that makes the hallway smell like salt and something better than luck - and then you are inside, and he is outside with his hat in his hand and a smile he can’t quite lose.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
He steps into the kitchen to find the usual rhythms: Royal sorting bolts into an old coffee tin, Cecelia drafting a grocery list like a battle plan. He sets his hat on the counter, drawing breath to speak - “You don’t have to tell me,” Cecelia cuts in, eyes soft but sharp. “I’ve noticed. You’re different. Lighter these days.” He huffs a small laugh. “Yeah. I’m seeing someone. I like her. And I’d like you to meet her.” Royal’s hands still over the tin; Cecelia’s pen pauses mid-checkmark. “All right,” she says, nodding once. “Tell us about her.” “She dances,” he tells them straight up. No hedging. “At the club a few towns over.” Silence does a lap around the room. Royal sets one bolt down, lines it up with the others. “Son…” “I know,” Rhett answers - not combative, just immovable. “I knew it when I met her. It’s her job. She’s good at it, she’s safe in it, she chose it. She’s also funny and smart, and she’s got rules same as we do. I’m not asking you to like the idea. I’m asking you to meet the person.” Cecelia rubs a thumb over the corner of her list. “Are you sure she isn’t - ” she searches for a gentler word and doesn’t find one - “using you?” He huffs a laugh that isn’t cruel. “She makes more money than me, Ma. If anything, she’s spotting me on fries.” He softens. “And I’m not the one she needs anything from. She’s fine. I just want you to know who I’m with.” Royal leans back, chair creaking. “You know folks’ll talk.” “Folks would talk if I brought home a saint,” Rhett scoffs. “I can’t run my life on their opinions. I won’t run hers on ’em, either.”
Perry drifts in like he’s just remembered the concept of coffee. He doesn’t speak - just reaches for a mug and stays within earshot. Backup without a badge. Cecelia exhales, a long, thin stream. “Do you love her?” she asks, then waves herself off. “Too soon - forget I asked.” “It’s early,” Rhett admits. “But I like her real steady. We’re taking it slow. She’s meeting me where I am, and I’m meeting her where she is. We talk like adults. I’m proud of that.” Royal’s jaw works once. “What do you expect from us?” Rhett meets his eyes. “Be normal,” he answers, simple. “Be kind. If it’s too much, we’ll keep it short. If it goes fine, we’ll stay. I don’t need sermons. I need you to trust I’m not walking blind.” Perry finally chimes in, casual as weather. “He’s not,” he says, sipping. “I’ve seen him blind. This ain’t it.” Cecelia’s mouth tips - half worry, half something else. “What’s her name?” Rhett tells her, and the kitchen shifts a degree. Royal taps the rim of the coffee tin. “When?” “Rodeo’s Saturday,” Rhett replies. “I ride around three. I asked her to come. We can meet up after - lots of people, easy out if anybody feels weird.” Cecelia nods, practical mode clicking in like a gear. “Okay. Rodeo is neutral ground.” She pauses. “I’ll bring a pie. Does she like lemon or apple?” “Lemon,” Rhett says, surprised at how sure he is. “And the sunflowers at the market.”
Cecelia writes lemon and underlines it. The pen clicks twice. “We’ll be civil,” she declares, and her voice had found the path between bristle and welcome. “I can’t promise I won’t ask a stupid question. But I’ll try not to.” “That’s all I’m asking,” Rhett says. “And if someone else asks a stupid question, I’ll handle it.” Royal gives one of those small, gruff nods that means he is saying a lot more than he admits. “You get one thing from me,” he says. “Don’t let being lonely make you stupid.” Rhett smiles. “I won’t.” Perry bumps his shoulder on the way past, a brother’s amen. “I’ll stake out the grounds. Run block if needed.” Cecelia tears the grocery list in half and hands a piece to Dad. “Sunflowers,” she speaks, to nobody and everybody. “We can do sunflowers.” Rhett picks up his hat. The room doesn’t feel entirely changed, but it isn’t what it was five minutes ago, either. He takes the little win and doesn’t press for more. “Saturday,” he says. “Saturday,” Cecelia echoes. “We’ll meet her. We’ll be normal.” Royal goes back to his bolts, but his voice follows Rhett to the doorway. “Bring your best ride. And tell her we’re glad to meet who’s making you less ornery.” Rhett grins into the hall. “Yes, sir.”
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
The fairgrounds are already humming when he pulls in - dust in the air, kids with snow cones, an old PA system clearing its throat. He is half in his head and half in the chute list when a familiar voice cuts through the noise at his shoulder. “Hey, cowboy.” He turns so fast his hat tilts. There you are - leather jacket, white shirt, flare jeans, boots that mean business. Hair loose, a little shine at your mouth from lip balm. You look like the idea of a western that actually holds together. “What are you - ” He catches himself, grinning. “Whatcha doin’ here?” You tip two fingers toward the alley that runs behind the pens. “Marco’s working security today. Used to bounce for us, remembers my good side. He waved me through with a wristband and a ‘tell him to keep his spurs down’.” Rhett huffs a laugh, something like pride sparking behind his ribs. “You look like trouble.” “I am. The fun kind.” You loop your arms around his neck; his hands find your waist. He draws you in and kisses you - quick, sure, sweet, a little claiming. When you part, you smile at him - a little wrecked and a little in love. “You good?” “Better now,” he says, honest as it comes.
There isn’t time for much more - another quick kiss by the rails, your hand squeezing his wrist once like a secret, his thumb brushing your knuckles like he can’t help it. Then the pickup man is calling and the world narrows to rosin, rope, and eight seconds that always ask too much and give just enough back. You slip out the back, find a spot on the rail a section over from where families camp with lawn chairs and coolers. Not hiding - just giving everyone a little air. From there, you can see the gate, the judge’s hand, and the toss of the animal under him. The announcer rolls Rhett’s name like a dare; the chute bangs; the bull blows out and turns hard left. He covers. Not pretty - honest. Shoulders loose, legs talking, free arm drawing circles in the dust and sunlight. The buzzer hits and the whole place lifts with him. He hits dirt, scrambles, runs clean, and when he is safe he doesn't look to the scoreboard first. He looks for you.
You’re already on your feet, laughing a little with relief, hand pressed to your heart. He jogs to the fence, plants a boot in a rung, climbs two bars, and finds your mouth before the dust even settles - quick, grinning, nowhere near enough and exactly right for the public. The section around you whoops. Someone yells, “Get it, cowboy!” and he laughs against your smile. “You were so good,” you breathe, forehead tipping to his like you can steady him with touch. “I get lucky,” he pants, still catching breath. “C’mon. Let´s go meet my folks.” Down the rail, Cecelia, Royal, and Perry watch the whole small miracle - your hand on his cheek, his joy unhidden. Perry grins outright; Royal goes quiet in that way he does when something lands true. And Cecelia feels a hinge in her chest loosen, a little more room made. She’ll meet you as you are, no judgment, because her boy looks happy and that counts for more than the story she told herself before. He drops back to the dirt, jogs the curve of the fence, and meets you at the gate. With a grin, he slides his hands to your waist and lifts you down off the rail - easy, like you’re the only thing he trusts to carry - setting you soft onto your boots. His hand stays at your waist and doesn't go far after that - sometimes around your back, sometimes linked with your fingers, like he is making sure you are never out of reach and never held too tight. You let him; it feels like the right size of steady.
⟡ ✿ ✧ ✿ ⟡
They’re waiting at a cluster of picnic benches like you all planned it that way - Cecelia setting down two foil-tented pies, Perry muscling a cooler into the shade, Royal with his hands on his hips, assessing and pretending he isn’t. “Ma, Dad,” Rhett says, voice easy. “This is -” he says your name like a good word, “- and these are my folks.” You don’t hesitate. You step straight to Cecelia, arms open. She startles, then smiles and gathers you in. “Oh,” she says, hands settling on your shoulders. “You’re warm.” “So are you,” you answer, like sharing an inside joke. “Thanks for meeting me.” Cecelia lifts the foil with ceremony. “Lemon or apple?” she asks - because she’s that kind of woman. “I brought both.” Perry pops the cooler lid, ice rattling, and grins like he’s been waiting to hand you a water all day. Royal gives a small, approving nod that says he’s taking the measure and likes what he finds. Rhett keeps a palm at the small of your back, fingers finding yours a beat later, and the bench becomes the easiest place in the world to sit.
“You ride good,” Royal tells Rhett, and then turns to you, “You look like you know how to spot a good tomato.” “I do,” you answer. “I also label leftovers. It’s a condition.” Perry chokes on a laugh. “He’s doomed,” he announces, delighted. “In a good way.” “So,” Cecelia says, slicing the pie like a diplomat, “you… ah…” She searches for something delicate and lands on honesty. “Do you ever - good grief, I’m going to ask this wrong - do you ever feel like folks are… looking at you for the wrong thing?” You could bristle. You don’t. You laugh softly - not at her, but at the question’s awkward boots. “All the time,” you answer, easy, handing her the knife to show you trust her hands. “At the club, that’s part of the ticket. But I set the rules there. Outside, I’m just a person in a hoodie who wants fries and a bed by midnight. And I’m doing bookkeeping part-time for a salon, looking for more of that. Numbers look at me for the right reasons.” Cecelia blinks, then smiles, relief smoothing something in her. “Numbers do have manners,” she says. “I like you.” “I like you, too,” you reply - and mean it. Royal hands Rhett a plate, then jerks his chin toward you with a kind of cautious affection. “You’ve got him laughing more,” he tells you. “We notice.” “Good,” you smile, like you’ve been handed a job you want. “He’s very good at making other people breathe easier. Someone should return the favor.”
You all eat pie that’s too sweet and perfect anyway. People drift by to clap Rhett on the shoulder; he fields it with his usual patience, always circling back to your side like he’s installed a compass for it. When someone asks if you’re his girl, he says, “Yes, sir,” without a flinch, and you feel the little click of a thing settling into one of its truest names. Cecelia does ask one more clumsy question about the club - some version of “how long do you think you’ll keep at it?” - and you just laugh again, gentle. “’Til I don’t want to,” you say. “And I don’t make big decisions when I’m tired. Right now I like the stage and the girls and the rules. I also like mornings. I’m letting both be true.” “That’s… very reasonable,” she admits, almost impressed with herself for hearing it. “Reasonable’s my brand,” you grin, nudging Rhett’s hip with yours. “His too.” “Sometimes,” Perry mutters. “With supervision.” They all laugh, even Royal, and then there are introductions to Aunt Jo at the table over - you tell her you “make a mean spreadsheet,” and she barks back, “Good, I make a mess,” and takes your number - and the sky settles toward late-day gold, and Rhett’s hand never really leaves you: fingers linked, palm at your waist, forearm brushing yours. Not because you need guarding. Because it feels good to have an always. When the band strikes up by the beer tent, Cecelia leans in and kisses your cheek, quick and soft. “Lemon suits you,” she says. “Sunflowers suit you,” you return, nodding at the stems peeking from her tote. “Thank you for seeing me and not the rumors.” “Thank you for letting me learn out loud,” she thanks you, and pats your hand - an apology shaped like affection. Rhett looks between you like a man who’s brought the right horse to the right ranch. “Walk?” he asks, thumb pressing once at your side. “Walk,” you say, and you go - through dust and laughter and the easy goodbyes between family - his hand finding yours again like it’s been there all along.
He walks you to his truck and opens the passenger door for you to climb in. You drive home with the windows cracked and dust still in their hair, grinning like the day doesn’t know how to quit. His hand rides the console the whole way, palm up, so you can lay your fingers there when the road goes straight. He drives both of you to your place. You both laugh your way through the door. He drops his hat on the hook and you tug him in by the shirt, a quick kiss that lands like a thank-you and a dare. “You rode well,” you murmur against his mouth. “Got lucky,” he says, already smiling. “My turn,” you decide, playful. “Rules are simple. We are home,” the word hits clean in his chest, “you can touch wherever you want.” “Yes, ma’am,” he says, voice gone warm. You cue a song with bones on your phone and let the little speaker turn the room amber. Jacket off, hair down, you step between his knees where he’s perched on the arm of the couch and start slow - hips keeping time, shoulders easy, a smile that’s all private. He laughs once, delighted and helpless, and then goes quiet the way good men do when they’re paying attention. You lean in, let your weight find him an inch at a time; he exhales, hands steady at your waist. When his thumbs press, careful, you nod. “That’s good,” you say, and he flushes like you gave him a ribbon. You turn, back to his chest, and let your spine fit the length of him, rolling your shoulders to the beat until he has to breathe deeper just to keep up. It’s heat without hurry, the kind of close that makes the room smaller and kinder. “Okay?” you check, turning your head. His jaw is tight with trying to be respectful and you love him for it. “So okay,” he manages, a little broken around the edges.
You laugh, spin back to face him, and straddle his lap, settling there like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands stay where you left them until you lift them until they are not. He moves both hands to your face and the permission is written in the way you tip your face into his palms. The kiss that follows is slow and sure, a long yes that doesn’t need a witness. When the song fades, you don’t move away. You stay right there, forehead to his, catching breath together. He’s looking at you like he’s memorizing - like he’s been trying not to say something for days and finally found the right room for it. “I think it’s obvious,” he starts, then swallows, gathers himself. “But I wanted to say it so you actually know.” You go still, soft. “I’m in love with you,” he says, simple as a fence post set straight. “I am. I know it’s early to some people. I know it’s fast. But it’s true in me, and I’d kick myself if I didn’t put it in the air where you could reach it.” Your smile happens before you can decide on it. It feels like a door opening to a porch you’ve been building together by accident. “Thank you for saying it,” you whisper, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “I’m in love with you, too.”
Something like relief and wonder breaks across his face. He laughs - quiet, disbelieving - and hauls you closer, arms around you without an ounce of doubt now. You tuck your chin on his shoulder and breathe him in: soap, dust, lemon pie you can’t stop laughing about. He doesn’t let go; he doesn’t need to. You trade small, silly kisses - cheek, nose, the corner of a smile - and a handful of giggles that would embarrass both of you anywhere but here. “Stay?” you ask, softer than the lights outside your window. “Just sleep,” he echoes, grinning. “Just sleep,” you agree, and somehow it sounds like a bigger promise. He takes off his pants, you put on a big shirt, he turns off the lamp. In bed you fold into the familiar arrangement - your leg over his, his arm under your neck - and let the day drain out. He whispers one more “I am in love with you” into your hair like a habit he plans to keep; you say it back like you’ve been waiting to. Morning will bring coffee and chores and a text to Aunt Jo about bookkeeping hours. Tonight brings nothing but the good quiet, his heartbeat steady under your ear and your fingers laced in his, both of you finally, fully sure.
Warnings: Drunk(tipsy at most I think?), cowgirl, car sex, dry humping,and light teasing!
Visiting Wabang Wyoming was supposed to be a one time thing. A little overnight stop on a road trip turned into the rest of the weekend, which led you two to meeting. You couldn't help but be charmed. Cowboy, a charming sweetheart, great personality, he could tell you were from the city just from the way you talked.
Enough said, it was no surprise you ended up dating said cowboy. Constantly calling you to ask how your day went, sending photos back and forth, buying gifts for when you would come back to visit him...Visiting him became common. Showing up to watch him ride bulls and then celebrating his wins at the crowded bar together. Tonight was another one of those. Grinning, giggling as your boyfriend over exaggerates what had actually happened whilst on a bull.
"I'm serious, baby. I could've died tonight!" he spoke, trying to hide his snicker behind his beer bottle. "Oh my gosh-you're such a drama queen! ...I could do what you do." you announced with a cocky grin that caused a snicker and head shake from him. "I don't think you should try it, baby." he warned quietly. You didn't back down though. Without a second thought your hand reached out, taking his hat and placing it on your head. "S-see! 'M just like you. "The way he paused and stared at you made you second-guess a few things. The way he tried not to smile and chuckle definitely confused you.
"Baby-darling. I know you ain't from here, you cannot do that. 'Specially not around all these people.." he muttered, his tone teasing yet warning. You just stared. All wide eyed, all confused. It's a hat! What about this was so funny to him and why is it making other drunks snicker?! He just couldn't help but laugh as he stood and shook his head. "Just come on, lemme explain it to you.
The cowboy hat rule. How were you supposed to know? "Wear the hat, ride the cowboy." That's just unheard of where you're from!! He tried to laugh it off, told you that you could wear it without obeying the rule..but it just wouldn't leave your head! His voice just reminded you that he was a cowboy the whole rive. Each bump in the road had to considering the position. The way your eyes were glued to his hands as he set up some blankets in the bed of his truck...you just had to try the idea.
It started the way it usually did. Sitting in the bed of his truck together, stargazing that turned into kissing..which caused you to climb into his lap. He initially grins against your lips. "What's all thi-" he tried to murmur, trying to tease only to be cut off by his own moan. His eyes practically roll back before shooting down to the sight: grinding against him, humping in his lap like a dog in heat, pleading-practically begging for him to let you try the dumb rule. "Please?" you whisper, hazy and desperate eyes glued to his. "I wanna try it..."
"Oh fuck-yeahh..yeah, so good, baby-" Rhett praises out, staring up at you with eyes full of love and surprise. Just staring with a look of adoration, wide eyed and focused in on the way you found a rhythm. Up up up until his yip was the only thing inside of you...then all the way down, settling there for a few seconds before repeating it. "Aww..c'mon, cowgirl. Y'gotta take it faster than that" he encouraged with a light slap to the thigh whilst overly slowly thrusting up. He just helped you so well. Taught you how to really ride your cowboy. "Yeah...jus' like that, darlin', little bit faster--mmhm pretty girl..."
"F-uckk Rhett..don-" You huff, nearly growl as your hands shoot to pin his wrists down "Don' do that. J-Jus' let me..l-let me use it, please? Please?" you begged, your drunken gaze full of desperation as you moved, riding him like you were putting on your own rodeo. "U-use me, use me, baby-be a good cowgirl like you wanted. Never knew my city girl could ride so well."