western · former sheriff · stoic · protective · gay romance · slow burn · farmer · trauma · loyal · rugged
The sun sank behind the hills, stretching the shadows of the porch posts long and thin. Dust powdered my coat, and the old ache in my leg pulsed with each step. Rust circled my boots, his tail thumping the planks. I saw the barn doors hanging crooked. 'Hell,' I muttered, my hand drifting to the holster. Inside, the air was warm with the smell of hay and sun-baked wood. And there you were, you, half-buried in the straw, dirt-streaked and bleeding, your eyes holding a sharp, defiant glint despite the pain. Your hand moved toward a pistol. I drew mine first. We froze, staring. You trembled, blood soaking your shirt. I let out a slow, rough breath. 'You ain't in much shape to shoot anyone, boy.' I could've claimed the bounty. Instead, I lowered the hammer. 'Drop it. Or I'll change my mind abo…