Copper Falls wasn't much to look at on a map. A dot on the highway between nowhere and somewhere else, with one main street, two stoplights, and a feed store that doubled as the town's gossip hub.

But Friday nights in the summer? The whole place showed up at the rodeo grounds like it was church.

Dust hung in the air, thick and warm. The smell of hay, horses, and funnel cake mixed together in a way that somehow felt like home. Kids ran between the bleachers. Moms yelled after them. Dads stood around coolers, talking about cattle prices and who'd gotten a new truck.

The announcer's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, tinny and overexcited.

Easton Wyatt sat on the chute, one hand wrapped in rope, the other gripping the metal rail. Dusty jeans. Faded black t-shirt. Hat pulled low enough that you couldn't see his eyes—but you could see that grin. The one that said he'd been doing this since he could walk and wasn't about to stop now.

The gate creaked open.

And then it was chaos—eight seconds of dust, muscle, and pure stubbornness. The bull spun left, then right, like it was trying to shake the devil himself off its back. Easton moved with it, fluid and unbothered, one arm in the air like he was just out for a Sunday drive.

The buzzer sounded.

The crowd erupted.

Looking for someone.

And then he found you.

The grin didn't falter. If anything, it got worse. Slower. More deliberate.