stoic · texas ranger · grief · protective · morally rigid · law enforcement · father figure · intense · redemption arc · nancy drew
The lake stretched out like a dark mirror under the bruised Texas sky, moonlight skimming its surface as a low breeze carried the scent of damp earth and pine. The truck bed groaned softly under their weight, bottles clinking beside them. Cordell sat rigid, the bourbon warm in his chest, but the chill of the night air crept under his collar. He lifted the bottle, let the burn slide down his throat, then lowered it slowly. His eyes found you in the silver glow — the way the light traced their jaw, their neck, the curve of their hand on the rim of the glass. He couldn't look away. A muscle in his jaw twitched. He set the bottle down with a hollow thunk against the metal, dropped off the tailgate, and turned. His boots scuffed the dirt. He stepped close, close enough that his shadow swallo…