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T he first time I saw a bull rider hit the dirt, I was six years old. My daddy had dragged me to the county fair, one hand wrapped around a lukewarm beer, the other clenched tight around my wrist. The memory is a blur of hot dust and the metallic tang of blood, but I remember the sound the most. A crunch, sharp and final, as the bull’s horn connected with the rider’s chest.

The crowd screamed. My daddy laughed.

Years later, when I finally made my escape from that chaotic world, I vowed with every fiber of my being that I'd never glance over my shoulder again. Yet here I stand, ensnared once more in the very same realm, my hands caked with the gritty texture of dirt and the sticky warmth of blood. This time, however, it's different—it's my responsibility to ensure those boys draw a breath, to keep the fragile flame of life flickering in their chests.

I'm the medic now, the one they summon when bones snap with a sickening crack and flesh tears open like fragile fabric. I'm the one who rushes into the chaos to pull the battered, broken bodies from the ring, where the lights are blinding and the crowd's roar is deafening. Behind the scenes, in the dim, quiet corners, I meticulously stitch them back together, my hands steady and precise, restoring what was once whole.

I’m good at it too. Too good.

Because the truth is, I know what pain looks like. It's the pale, drawn face of someone who has lost everything, the empty gaze that stares blankly into nothingness. I know what it sounds like when a life breaks apart—the sharp, shattering crack of a heart splintering into pieces, the quiet sobs that echo in an empty room. I’ve been there, lying on a worn-out mattress, staring up at a cracked ceiling while my world crumbled like fragile glass around me.

But in the rodeo, pain is a currency exchanged for survival. It’s the price these boys pay, etched in bruises and scars, to keep their inner demons at bay. And I guess, in a way, it’s the same for me, a necessary toll to fend off my own shadows.

Ethan Moore understood that better than anyone.

When I joined the circuit, I was just a girl fleeing the shadows of her past. Clutching a fake ID, a well-worn first-aid kit, and the phone number of my older half brother. I carried with me a tenacious streak of determination that refused to fade. The rodeo embraced me, offering a sense of belonging and a newfound purpose.

And Ethan? He gave me a family. They called themselves the Savage Eight, a name that once held a different meaning before it grew shadows and undertones. In those early days, they were merely boys—wild, boisterous, and brimming with such vitality that watching them could almost be painful. Their laughter echoed like a raucous symphony, and their carefree spirits roamed with the freedom of untamed horses, vibrant and untethered.

But after Ethan died, everything changed. The circuit felt colder. The cheers sounded hollow. The Savage Eight were seven, and nothing filled the empty space he left behind.

Especially not Rhett Calloway.

T he present is a sharp contrast to the past. My boots crunch against the gravel as I make my way to the medic tent, the familiar scent of antiseptic and leather wrapping around me. It’s been two years since Ethan’s accident, and I’ve built walls around myself higher than the chutes that hold those wild bulls.

I keep my head down, my focus on the work. Bandage the cuts, reset the bones, pretend the world outside the tent doesn’t exist. I avoid relationships, avoid risks, avoid anything that threatens the fragile independence I’ve clawed out of the pits of rock bottom.

The rodeo boys know better than to mess with me. They flirt, sure, but it’s half-hearted. They’ve seen me drag bodies from the ring, seen the way my hands don’t shake, even when the blood is fresh, and the screams are raw. They respect me—fear me, maybe. That’s fine by me.

But Rhett is different.

I spot him across the grounds, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowd. He’s been back on the circuit for a month now, after two years of silence. The whispers say he got suspended for fighting, but nobody knows the full story. Nobody ever does with Rhett. He’s a storm in denim and leather, all dark eyes and dangerous smirks. The kind of trouble that sinks its teeth in and never lets go.

I don’t trust him. Don’t trust any of them, not really. But with Rhett, it’s more. It’s the way he looks at me, like he knows exactly what it feels like to run and run and never quite get away. It’s the heat in his gaze, the way my skin prickles when he’s nearby.

I swallow hard and force my attention back to the medic tent. I’ve got enough ghosts chasing me. The last thing I need is another one with a wicked grin and a taste for danger.

But the universe has other plans. As I step into the medic tent, I hear the announcer's voice boom across the arena. "Up next, ladies and gentlemen, the man you've all been waiting for—Rhett 'Razor' Calloway!"

My stomach clenches. I shouldn't care. I shouldn't watch. Rhett left me high and dry two years ago, we’re nothing anymore.

But my feet move of their own accord, carrying me to the edge of the tent where I can see the chutes.

Rhett's there, straddling the gate, his body coiled tight like a spring. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the white-knuckled grip on the rope. For a moment, just a breath, his eyes flick towards the medic tent. Towards me.

The gate bursts open.

It's chaos and poetry all at once. The bull explodes from the chute, a tornado of muscle and fury. Rhett moves with it, his body in perfect sync with the beast's wild bucking. For eight seconds, the world narrows to just man and animal, locked in their deadly dance.

I shouldn't care. I tell myself I don't. But my heart's in my throat, and I can't look away.

When the buzzer sounds, Rhett makes his dismount. It's clean, practiced—until it isn't. The bull's back hoof catches him mid-air, sending him spinning. He hits the ground hard, rolling once before going still.

The crowd gasps. I'm already moving.

My boots eat up the distance between the tent and the arena. I vault over the fence, ignoring the shouts of the rodeo clowns. All I see is Rhett, face-down in the dirt.

I drop to my knees beside him, my hands already moving to assess the damage. "Rhett," I say, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Can you hear me?"

He groans, a low, pained sound that sends a shiver down my spine. Slowly, he turns his head, and those eyes lock on to mine. For a moment, the world narrows to just us—the roar of the crowd fades away, the dust settles, and all I can see is the raw vulnerability in his gaze.

"Willow," he rasps, and the way he says my name makes something twist in my chest. "Fancy meetin' you here."

I ignore the quip, my hands moving efficiently over his body, checking for injuries. "Can you move your legs? Any pain in your neck or back?"

He winces as he shifts, testing his limbs. "Legs are fine. Back's sore as hell, but I can move." He starts to push himself up, but I press a firm hand to his shoulder.

"Stay down," I order, my voice clipped. "Let me finish checking you over."

He complies, but I can feel his eyes on me as I work. My hands move with practiced efficiency, probing for injuries, but each touch feels electric. I tell myself it's just the adrenaline, the heightened tension of the moment.

"You worried about me, Willow?" he asks, a hint of that cocky grin tugging at his lips despite the pain etched in the lines of his face.

I scoff, keeping my eyes on my work. "I worry about all you idiots who think dancing with two thousand pounds of pissed-off beef is a good time."

His chuckle turns into a groan as I probe a tender spot on his ribs. "Careful there, darlin'. I'm delicate."

"Bullshit," I mutter, but I ease up on the pressure. "You've got some bruised ribs, maybe cracked. We need to get you to the hospital for x-rays."

Rhett's hand closes around my wrist, stopping me. The touch sends a jolt through me, and I have to fight the urge to pull away. "No hospitals," he says, his voice low and firm. "I can't afford to miss any rides."

I glare at him, my jaw clenching. "You could have internal injuries. This isn't a game, Rhett."

"It's always been a game, Willow," he says, his dark eyes boring into mine. "And I'm all in."

For a moment, we're locked in a silent battle of wills. His hand is still on my wrist, warm and calloused. I can feel his pulse racing beneath my fingertips, matching the frantic beat of my own heart.

"Fine," I finally spit out, yanking my arm free. "But you're coming back to the medic tent. I'm not letting you walk away until I'm sure you're not going to keel over."

He grins, that cocky smirk that makes my blood boil. "Yes ma'am."

I help him to his feet, trying to ignore the way his body leans into mine, the solid warmth of him against my side. The crowd cheers as we make our way off the arena floor, but I barely hear them. All I can focus on is the ragged sound of Rhett's breathing, the slight hitch in his step.

"Quite the dramatic exit," Rhett mutters, his breath hot against my ear. "You always make such a spectacle?"

I grit my teeth, tightening my grip on his waist. "Shut up and walk, Calloway."

We stumble into the medic tent, the canvas flaps snapping shut behind us. The noise of the arena fades, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and the sharp scent of antiseptic. I guide Rhett to the exam table, my hands steady even as my pulse races.

"Shirt off," I order, turning to grab supplies.

"Didn't realize you were so eager to get me naked, Hayes," Rhett drawls, but I hear the strain beneath the bravado.

I spin back, ready with a biting retort, but the words die in my throat. Rhett's struggling with his shirt, face contorted in pain. Without thinking, I step forward, gently easing the fabric over his head.

"Thanks," he mutters, not quite meeting my eyes.

I nod, forcing my gaze to stay clinical as I survey the damage.

Bruises are already blooming across Rhett's torso, angry purple splotches against tanned skin. My fingers ghost over his ribs, feeling for fractures. He hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away.

"You're lucky," I mutter, reaching for the ice packs. "Nothing's broken, but you're gonna be sore as hell for a while."

Rhett chuckles, then winces. "Ain't nothing new there, darlin'."

I press the ice pack to his side, maybe a little harder than necessary. "Don't call me darlin'."

His eyes meet mine, dark and intense. "What should I call you then, Willow?"

The way he says my name sends a shiver down my spine. I step back, putting distance between us. "Nothing. You shouldn't be calling me anything."

Rhett leans forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Now that's not very friendly, is it? After all we've been through together."

I bristle at his words, memories of a late night and shared secrets threatening to surface. "We haven't been through anything together, Calloway. I patch you up when you're stupid enough to get yourself hurt. That's it."

He raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Is that really all it is, Willow? Because I seem to remember a time when—"

"Don't," I cut him off sharply, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "That was a long time ago. Things are different now."

"Right," he drawls, the word dripping with sarcasm. "And you always vault over fences and run into arenas for every rider who takes a spill?"

My hands freeze. Damn it. He noticed.

"I was closest," I lie, my back still to him. "It was faster than waiting for the clowns."

"Uh-huh." I can hear the smirk in his voice. "And I'm sure your heart wasn't racing at all when you saw me go down."

I whirl around, anger flaring hot in my chest. "Listen here, Calloway. I don't give a damn about you or any other cowboy with a death wish. My job is to keep you idiots alive, nothing more."

Rhett's eyes darken, a storm brewing behind that cocky facade. He slides off the exam table, wincing slightly as his feet hit the ground. In two long strides, he's in front of me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

"You're a terrible liar, Willow," he says, his voice low and rough. "Always have been."

I stand my ground, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. "And you're a self-destructive asshole who's going to get himself killed if he's not careful."

His lips quirk into a humorless smile. "Maybe that's the point."

“Fuck you, Rhett.”

He smirks. “There’s the Willow I know. Now, if you’re done patching me up… I’m gonna go find me a nice little buckle bunny to keep an eye on me tonight.”

The words hit me like a slap. I feel my face flush hot with anger, and something else I refuse to name.

"Go right ahead," I spit out. "I'm sure there are plenty of girls out there stupid enough to fall for your bullshit."

Rhett's eyes narrow, a dangerous glint sparking in their depths. "Careful there, Hayes. Someone might think you're jealous."

I scoff, turning away to busy myself with cleaning up the supplies. "In your dreams, Calloway."

"Oh, you have no idea what's in my dreams, darlin'," he drawls, his voice low and heated.

I spin back around, ready to tear into him, but the words die in my throat. Rhett's closer now, so close I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, smell the leather and dust clinging to his skin

My breath catches in my throat as Rhett looms over me, his presence overwhelming in the confined space of the medic tent. The air between us crackles with tension, thick and heavy like the moments before a storm breaks.

"You want to know what's in my dreams, Willow?" Rhett's voice is low, rough with something that might be pain or desire. "I dream about those nights. The ones you're so desperate to forget."

I swallow hard, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "I told you, that was a mistake. We were both young and—"

"Bullshit," he cuts me off, taking another step closer. I back up instinctively, my spine hitting the edge of the supply cabinet. "We weren't that young. Not enough to forget how it felt when I touched you. How you gasped my name."

Heat floods my cheeks.

The flap of the tent opens and Jace, the leader of the Savage Eight strolls in.

My heart hammers in my chest as Jace's eyes dart between Rhett and me, taking in our close proximity and the tension crackling in the air.

I freeze, my heart pounding as Jace's eyes flick between Rhett and me. There's a knowing glint in his gaze that makes my skin crawl.

"Am I interrupting something?" Jace drawls, a smirk playing on his lips.

"No," I snap, at the same moment Rhett growls, "Yes."

Jace raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Well, which is it?"

I shove past Rhett, putting some much-needed distance between us. "Nothing's going on. I was just finishing up Rhett's exam."

"Sure you were," Jace says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. He turns to Rhett. "You good to ride tomorrow, or do I need to find a replacement?"

Rhett's jaw clenches. "I'm fine. I'll be ready."

Jace's eyes narrow, assessing. "You sure about that? You took quite a hit out there."

"I said I'm fine," Rhett growls, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to call him out on his bullshit. He's in no shape to ride tomorrow, and we both know it. But I've learned the hard way that these cowboys don't take kindly to being told what they can and can't do.

Jace shrugs, apparently satisfied. "Alright then. Get some rest. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

Rhett's eyes flick to me, then back to Jace. There's a moment of tension, like he's weighing his options. Finally, he nods. "Yeah, good idea."

Jace claps him on the shoulder, and Rhett winces slightly. If Jace notices, he doesn't let on. "Good man. Now, how about we grab a beer? Celebrate that eight-second ride of yours."

I can see the conflict in Rhett's eyes. He glances at me again, and for a split second, I think he might refuse. But then his cocky grin slides back into place. "Sure thing, man. Let me just grab my shirt."

As Rhett turns to retrieve his discarded shirt, Jace's gaze lands on me. His smile is all charm, but there's something predatory lurking beneath the surface.

Neither man looks back as they head out of the tent. I slide down to the floor, holding my head in my hands.

I let out a shaky breath as the tent flap swings shut behind them. The silence feels oppressive, broken only by the distant roar of the crowd and the pounding of my own heart.

Fuck.

I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the memory of Rhett's heated gaze, the feeling of his body so close to mine. This isn't supposed to happen. I've spent two years building walls, keeping everyone at arm's length. And in the span of ten minutes, Rhett Calloway had managed to crack my carefully constructed defenses.

I push myself to my feet, anger and frustration fueling my movements as I aggressively clean up the tent. I slam supplies back into cabinets, muttering curses under my breath.

"Stupid, reckless, arrogant cowboys," I growl, tossing bloodied gauze into the trash can.

Fuck Rhett Calloway.