Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cattle moved slowly that morning, a sluggish tide of hide pressing across the pasture. Dust rose in thick curtains, turning the air into a haze, Georgia sunlight burning down like it had no mercy. John Walker rode at the flank, his white hat pulled low, his reins loose in one hand as he guided the herd toward the northern gate. The rhythm of it was a steady click of hooves, the occasional sharp whistle, a shout to turn a stubborn steer. John liked it that way. Out here, it was just the land, the cattle, and the men he trusted at his side. He was free to let his mind drift in the steady routine of it. The weight of life pressing down on him a little lighter.

Never for too long.

“Are you gonna let that one cut loose?” Sam called out from across the field. He wore his easy grin even in the heat, because Sam never looked rattled by anything.

“I was on it,” John muttered, breaking out of the mindless haze he had drifted away into.

“Uh, huh.” Bucky muttered, coaxing his horse further along with the herd.

John shook his head, but his focus stayed sharp now. He had the kind of seat that came from years of bronc riding and hard work, every movement instinctual. It should’ve been just another day pushing cattle, but Lemar could never hold his tongue for that long.

“You hear the news yet?” Lemar called over, his voice carrying clear across the dust and the pounding of hoofs. He was riding a chestnut gelding that liked to test him, but Lemar’s grin was all mischief, as if he’d been waiting for this moment.

John felt his stomach drop before Lemar even said another word. He knew exactly where this conversation was heading. “Don’t start,” he warned, tugging his reins to press the stubborn steer back into line again.

“Nah, you’ll want to hear this one.” Lemar leaned easy in the saddle, his eyes cutting to John with a spark that said he knew exactly what fuse he was lighting. “Guess who’s back in town.”

John’s grip on the reins tightened. His horse tossed its head, sensing the tension. Bucky rode closer, shaking his head like he was already tired of the whole thing. “Saw him myself down by the feed store yesterday. It’s true.”

“Don’t,” John said sharply. Dust caught in his throat, turning the word raw.

Sam gave a short laugh. “C’mon, Walker. What, you think if we don’t say his name, he’ll disappear again?”

Lemar’s grin widened, unfazed by John’s empty threats. “Reynolds.”

The name alone cut through the heat, sharper than a spur. John’s horse sidestepped, restless under him, and he had to haul in his reins before it bolted. He swore low under his breath, jaw tight. “Lot of Reynolds in this county.”

“Not the kind you’re thinking of,” Lemar said, and there was no teasing this time.

Bucky gave a low whistle. “Still gets to you, huh?”

John ignored him, pushed his horse harder at the flank, corralling another breakaway back toward the herd. The pounding of hooves gave him something to focus on, but it didn’t drown out the way the air seemed heavier now, charged.

“It’s been a year,” Sam said, voice lighter than the look in his eyes. “You still wear it on your sleeves plain as day.”

“One day you two were thicker than thieves,” Lemar added. “Next day, Bob’s gone and you’re working yourself half to death. Whole town still wonders what happened.”

John shot them a glare, sharp as barbed wire. “Ain’t nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit,” Lemar said, chuckling.

“I said drop it.” John’s voice cracked like a gunshot.

The herd moved on, restless but steady, and the others let the silence settle again. But John could feel their looks, the unspoken weight of their questions. Small towns never forgot a thing. Everyone thought they knew the story, but only John and Bob knew what had really happened behind closed doors. The cattle reached the north gate, and John rode ahead to swing it wide, dust swirling up around him. His throat burned with it, or maybe with the memories he was trying not to think of: Bob’s laugh, his hand at John’s cheek, the way his blue eyes saw through every damn defense John had ever tried to raise. By the time the herd was penned and the horses cooled down, John still hadn’t shaken it.

Sam finally said it quietly, almost carefully: “Heard he’s working over at the Shostakov ranch. Yelena took him on for odd jobs. Heard he’s sober now.”

John’s breath caught, just for a moment. Sober. The word lodged deep, stirring up old guilt he’d shoved down for more than a year. The pills had come along well before John had cut their ties rough and frayed. A car accident when Bob was young, blossoming an addiction as steady as Bobby’s blue eyes. Pain pills tucked between his teeth when he would knock beers back when they got older. It was wrong, but John didn’t know shit about addiction, nor did he have the right to tell Bob otherwise. Not when John couldn’t face his own faults reflecting in the mirror every morning.

But all he said was, “Ain’t my business where Bobby parks his ass.”

“Funny,” Bucky gave him a sidelong look. “Looks like it sure as hell feels like your business.”

John ignored them, leaning forward to pat his horse’s neck. “We done here?” he asked, though his voice had lost its usual steady edge.

Lemar barked a laugh. “Walker, you’re about as subtle as a bull in a church.”

~

The thing about a town this small was that you couldn’t dodge a name once it started following you. For the rest of that week, John couldn’t spit without Bob Reynolds showing up in some shape or form. It started the very next morning. They’d ridden out before sunup to check water lines, John and Sam paired off while Bucky and Lemar worked the other side of the pasture.

Sam poured lukewarm coffee from a dented thermos, passing it over. “Heard Bob’s staying out at the old bunkhouse on the Shostakov spread. Cleaned up the whole place, had to evict two raccoons, looks nice.”

John took the cup, swallowed too fast, the burn catching at the back of his throat. He didn’t look at Sam. “Good for him.”

“You gonna go see him?”

John gave a sharp laugh, humorless. “Not my damn problem.”

Sam just hummed, like he didn’t believe a word of it.

A day later, Bucky came back from town with nails and new gloves, dust on his jeans. “Ran into Yelena at the hardware store,” he reported, tossing the bag down. “Guess who was hauling lumber for her?”

John didn’t answer, just kept checking the saddle cinch on his mare.

Bucky smirked. “Said he’s quieter now. Steady. Doesn’t talk much. Different from before.” He paused. “She sounded proud of him.”

John pulled the cinch too tight, and the horse sidestepped, snorting in protest.

“Careful,” Bucky said dryly.

John eased it, muttering under his breath.

By midweek, Lemar decided it was funny. Every chance he got, he slipped Bob’s name into the air like a lit match.

‘Bob used to rope better than you, Walker.’ ‘You think Bob still remembers that twenty bucks he owes me?’ ‘Remember when Bob got thrown off that steer and-‘

John let it roll off him, or tried to. But every jab pulled at something raw, something that hadn’t healed. Bob. Bob. Bob.

“Enough,” John snapped, voice louder than he meant. Lemar only grinned, but he didn’t push again.

Thursday morning, Bucky brought it up again without malice, just curiosity. “County rodeo’s comin’ up. Bet Bob’s got the itch to ride again. Yelena says he’s been practicing at night, when no one’s watchin’.”

John didn’t respond. He just thought of Bob on horseback, the way he used to sit tall and easy, like he belonged in the saddle more than anywhere else. His black hat settled low with dark curls catching gold in the sunlight. The easy soft smile he’d send John when their eyes used to meet. Something in his chest ached bad.

By the week’s end, John was worn raw from the constant reminders. He told himself he didn’t care, that it was all behind him. But the truth was plain enough: in a town this small, Bob wasn’t going to stay a shadow forever.

So when Lemar leaned over late Friday night, and said, “We’re all hittin’ the bar tomorrow. You comin’?” John already knew where it was headed and he already knew Bob would be there.

~

Saturday night usually meant the bar. It wasn’t much of a place, just one long room with a scuffed wood floor, neon signs that buzzed like angry flies, and a jukebox that hadn’t been updated since the early nineties. But in a town this size, it was where everyone ended up after a hard week’s worth of work. John hadn’t wanted to go. He’d told himself a dozen reasons to stay back: sore from riding, early morning chores, a headache brewing. But Lemar had leaned on him hard, and Sam had given that look like, ‘Don’t hole yourself up again’, and next thing he knew he was hauling himself into the truck bed next to Lemar.

Inside, the air was cooler but thick with smoke and beer. Music twanged from the jukebox, couples two-stepping near the pool tables. The familiar press of bodies, the low rumble of voices, it all wrapped around John like an old coat. He followed his friends to their usual table near the back wall.

Sam ordered the first round, sliding John a longneck with an easy grin. “Don’t look so sour. You’d think we dragged you to church.”

John took a long swallow. “The place is loud,” he muttered.

“The place is always loud,” Lemar shot back. He’d already leaned halfway over the table, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. “Hell, the whole damn town’s here tonight.”

Bucky settled in the corner, nursing his drink slowly. “You’re just impatient,” he told Lemar.

“Damn right,” Lemar said, then he grinned at John. “Maybe I’m waiting for the guest of honor.” John stiffened, the bottle halfway to his mouth.

Sam kicked Lemar under the table. “Knock it.”

“I’m just saying,” Lemar drawled, smirking.

John set the bottle down harder than he meant to. The clink echoed sharply. “Not funny.”

For a moment, the table went quiet. Only the music filled the space: the steel guitar twang, the shuffle of boots on the floor.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat. “Rodeo sign-ups opened today,” he said, changing the subject. “You gonna throw your hat in, Walker?”

John shrugged, grateful for the pivot. “Maybe. Haven’t decided.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky said without looking up. “You live for it.”

“Don’t mean I’m ready this year.”

They batted the subject back and forth for a while. Sam bragging, Lemar teasing, Bucky dry as dust, but John only half listened. His eyes kept flicking toward the door without meaning to. Every time it swung open, his chest tightened, waiting for the silhouette he didn’t want to see. It didn’t matter how much he told himself he was done, that he didn’t care. The anticipation had its claws in him. At one point, a girl in a short skirt wandered past their table, smiling at John. He nodded politely, but nothing landed. The old-timers at the bar counter laughed loudly, the sound carrying over the clatter of pool balls. Still, John couldn’t shake it. He’ll come. He knew it in his bones, the same way he knew a storm was coming by the smell of rain in the air. It was only a matter of when.

The first beer went quick. Easier that way to take the edge off, keep his hands busy. John waved the waitress over for another, the condensation already dripping down the longneck when she set it on the table.

“C’mon,” Lemar said after a while, nodding toward the pool tables. “Let’s play a few rounds. Loser buys next.”

Sam grinned. “You’re just looking to hustle Walker out of his paycheck.”

“Man’s terrible at pool,” Lemar fired back.

John tipped his bottle. “That why you’re so eager to lose?”

Bucky snorted into his drink. They ended up over at the tables anyway, the four of them chalking cues and trading smack talk. John held his own, not brilliant but steady, keeping his jaw locked tight whenever Lemar dropped another sly Bob joke in his direction. Sam was the one who laughed loudest, leaning against the table like he owned the place. Bucky barely said two words but cleared shots clean, precise, and kicking all of their asses.

Around them, the bar swelled with noise: boots clattering, a burst of laughter, the jukebox shifting into something older, twang sharp enough to rattle the walls. A couple spun in a two-step right in front of the pool tables, making Lemar curse good-naturedly when he had to angle his shot around them. John felt himself start to ease, almost, beer working through his blood, familiar rhythms of his friends dragging him out of his head. Then someone nudged his arm.

“You’re up,” Sam said.

John blinked, realizing the table had gone quiet, waiting. He bent over, sighted his shot, and drove the cue hard enough that the crack of it carried. Two balls dropped into pockets.

“Show-off,” Lemar muttered.

John allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch, almost a smile, before he stood back, wiping his hand on his jeans.

They played a few more rounds, until Sam called for another drink and Lemar wandered off to flirt near the jukebox. Bucky stayed at the table, spinning his cue slowly between his fingers, watching the room like he was expecting trouble. John leaned against the rail, bottle cool in his palm, and let his gaze drift. He knew everyone in here. Faces he’d grown up with, old classmates, neighbors who still called him the ‘golden boy’ when they wanted a favor. The air hummed with talk of ranch work, rodeo prep, broken trucks, bad weather. Same stories, same place, same night. It should’ve been comforting.

But he kept glancing toward the door. Couldn’t stop.

Bucky caught him, eyes narrowing. “You’re waiting on him.”

John bristled. “Ain’t waiting on anyone.”

Bucky hummed, unconvinced, and leaned back to take another drink.

Sam came back with a tray of beers, setting them down hard enough to slosh. “Crowd’s getting thick tonight.”

John looked up. He hadn’t noticed how full it had gotten, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, boots stomping with the rhythm, voices louder. The night swelled around him, hot and restless. John was halfway through his next beer when the door creaked open again, spilling in a stripe of night air and the muffled sound of crickets outside. He didn’t mean to look. His head just turned on instinct. And there he was.

Bob Reynolds.

The room didn’t fall silent exactly, but it shifted like a gust of wind had blown through, pulling every set of eyes in his direction. John felt it in his gut, the way the crowd took notice. Bob stood a little straighter than John remembered, broad shoulders filling out a white T-shirt, blue jeans worn at the knees. His hair was longer, darker in the bar’s light, brushed back but still with those stubborn curls. He looked… steadier. And Yelena was right beside him. She moved like she owned the place, a sharp little smirk cutting through the room, daring anyone to say a word. Her hand brushed Bob’s arm as she steered him forward, like she was making sure he didn’t get lost in the noise. John’s chest tightened.

Bob scanned the room once, slowly. His eyes passed over strangers, lingered on familiar faces, then-

They found John.

For a beat, nothing else existed. Just those deep blue eyes across the bar, pinning him like a nail through wood. John swallowed, the taste of beer suddenly bitter.

“Speak of the devil,” Lemar muttered, reappearing at John’s shoulder with perfect timing.

John couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Every part of him screamed to stand, to leave, to do anything but sit there frozen. But he stayed rooted, bottle clutched tight in his hand, heart hammering louder than the jukebox. Bob broke eye contact first, looking toward the bar counter where Yelena was already flagging down the bartender. But John caught the flicker in his expression, something sharp, something heavy. Recognition. Memory. It hit John like a horse kick to the ribs: after a year of silence, after everything burned down between them, Bob was back. And he was standing thirty feet away. The dust John thought had settled? Not even close.

~

Bob hadn’t wanted to come.

He’d told Yelena that twice on the drive over, once when she cut the engine in the gravel lot, and again when she tugged him out of the truck. She hadn’t listened either time, just rolled her eyes and muttered in Russian, shoving her way toward the bar’s front door with him trailing in her wake. Now, standing inside, the smell of beer and smoke clinging heavy in the air, Bob felt every eye on him. It prickled against his skin like static. The bar hadn’t changed one bit, same neon buzz, same warped floorboards, same familiar faces pretending not to stare.

He resisted the urge to shrink into himself. Yelena wouldn’t let him anyway. She marched straight to the counter, sharp elbows parting the crowd, her hand brushing his sleeve to keep him close. Bob slid onto the stool she pointed at, planting his boots against the rail. He folded his hands in front of him, fingers twitching against the sticky bar top until he stilled them with effort. The trick was to look calm, steady. The trick was to be steady.

He’d worked hard to get here. Months of meetings and weeks of detox. Dragging himself back to this shit hole town. Long days at the Shostakov ranch, early mornings fixing fence lines, late nights hauling feed, muscles aching in that clean, honest way. No pills. No powders. No pipes. No ghosts in the bloodstream. Just work. And it helped. But being here, in this bar, with so many eyes turning his way? It was like standing too close to a fire. His chest tightened, a flicker of the old restlessness creeping back.

“Two cokes,” Yelena ordered, cutting through the hum. Her Russian lilt softened nothing. She tossed a bill on the counter and looked at him sideways. “Don’t make a face. You don’t have to drink it. But you will sit here and breathe, yes?”

Bob managed a small smile, faint but real. “Bossy.”

“Alive,” she corrected, lips quirking.

The bartender slid two glasses their way. Bob wrapped his hand around his, letting the cold sweat of it ground him. Holding it, letting it sit there, felt like reclaiming a piece of himself instead of letting the fear take it.

Yelena’s gaze flicked over the room, sharp as a hawk’s. “The whole town is buzzing,” she said. “Good. Let them buzz. Better they see you than whisper about you.”

Bob exhaled through his nose, slowly. She always had a way of cutting straight to the heart of it. He dared a glance across the bar again, and that’s when he saw him.

John Walker.

Sitting with Lemar, Sam, and Bucky, half in the shadows near the pool tables. Same as always. Same posture, same broad shoulders under a worn shirt. Hat tipped low, jaw set tight, bottle clenched in his hand like he wanted to break it. Like no time at all had passed. Bob’s stomach lurched. For days, he’d imagined this moment by accident, by chance, maybe in passing on the street. He’d told himself he’d be ready, that he could face John without flinching, that he’d feel nothing but cool distance. But now… Christ. One look, and it was like the air left his lungs. All the old weight slammed back into him at once: the nights they’d stolen, the words they’d never said out loud, the wreckage of their ending.

Yelena followed his line of sight, then hummed low, satisfied. “Ah. There he is.”

Bob tore his gaze away, staring down into the dark glass. “Don’t start.”

Yelena arched a brow. “You think I dragged you here to sit quietly? That one-” She tilted her chin toward John’s table, “Is the reason you keep pacing the ranch at night like a caged animal. Better you look him in the face than keep haunting yourself.”

“I’m not-“ Bob began, but the protest died in his throat. Because Yelena was right.

Bob turned his glass in his hands, tracing circles in the condensation. The voices around him felt too loud, too close. Every laugh cracked sharp, every bootstep on the warped floorboards rattled in his head.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said finally, voice low enough only Yelena heard. “We should just leave. Before…” He swallowed, staring at the untouched soda. “Before I screw it up.”

Yelena leaned her elbow on the counter, chin tilted toward him. “Screw what up? Sitting in a bar? Pretending to sulk?”

“You don’t get it,” Bob muttered. His chest was tight, his shoulders drawn in though he tried to look relaxed. “Everyone’s looking. I can feel it. They’re waiting for me to… to slip. To be who I was.”

She studied him, sharp and unflinching. “So? Let them wait. Make them wait forever.“

Bob huffed out a shaky laugh. “Easy for you to say. You don’t know what it’s like walking in here after…” He broke off, the words snagging in his throat. After losing John. After drowning himself in everything he could get his hands on. After leaving town like a ghost.

Yelena’s gaze softened, just a hair. “You are not the same man you were,” she said simply. “They cannot touch you unless you let them.”

Bob looked at her, at that fierce certainty stamped on her face. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to. But already he felt the edges fraying, his nerves clawing at him. His hands itched, not for pills not anymore, but for escape. For somewhere to hide.

“Yelena…” His voice cracked faintly. “I don’t want to give them a reason to say I haven’t changed.”

She reached over and covered his hand with hers, squeezing hard enough to anchor him. “You have nothing to prove, except to yourself. So sit. Breathe.”

He managed a small smile at that tight, but real. Convinced to stay long enough to finish the glass in his hand and just breathe. It was easy to ignore the rest of the room, with Yelena’s quick jokes by his side, like it was any other Saturday night a year ago. Though trouble never takes long to eventually find its way to Bob. The hand on his shoulder was heavy, familiar in the worst way. Bob’s body went tight before his head even caught up.

“Well, well. Robert.”

Clayton Cooper. Of course. Bob didn’t have to turn to know the sour whiskey breath, the drawl that always carried just a little louder than it should.

Bob forced his voice steady. “Evenin’, Clay.”

Clay leaned in, too close, grinning like a man who’d just found a nail to hammer. “Heard the rumors. Didn’t believe it myself, but hell- look at you. Back in town, sittin’ in the bar like nothin’ happened.”

Bob kept his eyes on his glass. “Just havin’ a drink.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Clay chuckled, mean and loud enough for the folks at the next table to hear. “Heard you came back clean. Guess we’ll see how long that lasts. But that ain’t what folks really remember about you, is it?”

The knot in Bob’s stomach tightened.

Clay leaned heavier on his shoulder, voice dropping low but carrying, deliberate. “Nah. What folks remember is you and Walker. Playin’ cowboys out on the range by day, and somethin’ else after dark. That was the story, ain’t it? Reynolds comes waltzing back in here, thinkin’ he can sit among decent folks, after hell, after everyone knows what he is.”

The words landed like a slap, sharp and stinging. Heat flooded Bob’s face, his hands curling tight around the glass.

Yelena shifted beside him, her voice flat as a blade. “You have about three seconds to walk away.”

But Clay only grinned wider, emboldened by the prickle of silence spreading through the bar. “Hell, it’s no secret. Everyone knew. Two ranch boys tangled up together, ain’t exactly hard to spot. Just funny, watchin’ Walker suddenly back to bein’ the good ol’ boy again, as soon as you weren’t around to corrupt him. While you…” His eyes swept Bob up and down with open contempt. “Well, I guess NA couldn’t fix that.”

Bob stood so fast the stool screeched back against the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat shaking loose another thread of his control. He wasn’t seventeen anymore, he reminded himself. He wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t high, he wasn’t supposed to be this easy to rattle.

“You better shut your mouth Clay,” Bob said, low and tight.

Clay laughed. “Or what? You’ll kiss me too?”

The bar roared with scattered jeers and nervous chuckles. Bob’s vision tunneled. He saw red, saw every sideways glance, every whisper he’d pretended not to hear since walking back into this town. And before he could think better of it, his fist connected with Clay’s cheek. The impact rang through his knuckles, sharp and brutal. Clay staggered back, crashing into a table and spilling drinks across the floor. Gasps. Shouts. The jukebox sputtered out mid-song. And then everything moved at once Clay lunging back, fists flying, chairs scraping as folks jumped to their feet. Bob barely had time to brace before the next hit came.

Clay’s fist caught Bob across the cheek, snapping his head sideways. Pain flared hot, blooming down his jaw. Blood blooming across his bottom lip. The bar was a blur of noise now, boots stomping, glasses clattering, and voices hooting for blood like it was a damn rodeo. Bob gritted his teeth and swung back, knuckles splitting against Clay’s ribs. The man grunted but didn’t stop, shoving Bob hard enough that he stumbled into another table. Wood splintered under his hip.

“Faggot can’t fight clean neither!” Clay spat, eyes wild with liquor and mean delight.

The slur cut sharper than the blows. For half a second, Bob froze hearing it echo, tasting the ash of every year he’d tried to swallow himself small. And then another fist came… only it didn’t land on him. Clay staggered, reeled sideways, clutching his face where John Walker’s knuckles had just cracked clean across his jaw. Bob’s breath caught.

John didn’t look at him, didn’t even glance. He just planted himself in front of Bob, broad-shouldered and steady, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His voice came out low and dangerous. “Back off, Clay.”

Clay snarled, blood on his teeth. “What, you takin’ his side?”

“You’re damn right I am,” John snapped, stepping forward. His tone carried, silencing half the room. “You don’t get to run your mouth like that.”

Before Clay could bark another word, John drove him back with another punch, cleaner and harder than Bob’s had landed. Clay hit the ground hard, groaning, and for a moment Bob thought it might be over. But the room was already buzzing like a kicked beehive boots scuffing, chairs scraping, men half rising out of their seats itching for the next swing. Bob stood rooted, chest heaving, cheek throbbing. He could barely process it. John, of all people, standing there like a wall between him and Clay, shoulders squared, fists still balled. His eyes locked on John’s broad back, on the way his stance dared anyone else to try and come at him. For the first time all night, Bob felt something he hadn’t expected. Not shame. Not dread.
Relief.

Clay spat blood and tried to stand back up on his own two feet. Bob braced, ready to go again. The bar about a second away from an all out brawl.

“Enough!” The barkeep’s voice cut like a rifle crack. She shoved her way through the crowd and planted herself between the mess of broken glasses and busted tables. “That’s it. Out. All of you.” She jabbed a finger toward Bob and John like they were both guilty sons. “You want to break each other’s faces that’s fine, but you know the damn rule, you do it out in the damn street. Not in my bar.”

“But he-“ Bob started, chest tight.

“Don’t care!” the barkeep barked back. “I see either of you back in here tonight, I call the sheriff. Now get!”

A couple of locals stepped in to make sure Clay stayed down, grumbling and spitting curses. Meanwhile, rough hands shoved Bob toward the door, John herded out right alongside him. The night air hit like a slap cool, dry, thick with dust. The door banged shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the bar. Just the two of them now, standing in the neon glow of the miller sign, their breath still ragged from the fight.

Bob staggered a step, swiping at his cheek where Clay’s punch had landed. His knuckles throbbed, raw and swollen, trying to shake it off. Blood dribbled down the front of Bob’s white shirt as he spat onto the ground. He let out a humorless laugh, low and bitter. “Can’t even have one fuckin’ night.” Licking the blood off his bottom lip.

Beside him, John was silent. Shoulders square, jaw set, still buzzing like a live wire. Bob didn’t look at him, couldn’t. Not yet. The air between them was charged enough to choke on, heavier than any bruise. They’d been thrown out together. And now there was nowhere to hide.

~

John hadn’t thrown a punch like that in months. Maybe years. His knuckles ached, split raw, but he couldn’t stop flexing his hand, couldn’t stop replaying the look on Clay’s face when it landed. Satisfaction, sharp and ugly, ran through him like a spark on dry brush. But when he turned, when he finally let himself look, Bob was standing there. Same height as ever, shoulders still too broad for the shirt he wore. Light scruff shadowing his jaw. Those eyes were the same. And they were fixed on John with a look that hollowed him out. Not relief. Not gratitude. Just suspicion, like John was some stranger who’d wandered in where he wasn’t wanted.

The low light cast Bob in half-shadow, cheek already bruising from Clay’s hit. John had the sudden, ridiculous urge to reach out, check the damage, thumb brushing the skin gentle as it used to be. Another night he and Bob would be laughing punches off until their ribs ached. Riding back home on horse back as the buzz work through them in giggles. But tonight John’s hands stayed fisted at his sides.

“You look-“ Before John can finish though Bob cuts him clean off with a dry scoff of a laugh.

“What, good? Better than you last saw me? That’s a pretty fuckin’ low bar, Walker.” Bob, not giving John an inch, letting out a long-held breath to steady himself. “Why’d you go do that?” Bob’s voice was quiet, ragged. Not soft, never soft, but like he was holding too much behind his teeth.

John’s mouth went dry. A dozen answers clawed their way up, because Clay’s a bastard, because he had it coming, because I couldn’t stand there and watch you take it. But none of them would come out right. None of them would change the look on Bob’s face. He forced his jaw to unclench. “You were outnumbered.” A lie.

Bob laughed once more, bitter. “That it? Some god damn heroics, huh?” He shook his head, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to play savior, John. Not after you-“ His voice caught sharp, like he’d tripped on the words. He cut himself off, turning away toward the dirt road.

John’s chest felt tight enough to split. The fight had burned out of him, but the heat lingered, settling in his gut. Anger, shame, want, he couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began. He wanted to shout back, tell Bob he didn’t ask to feel this way, that he hadn’t stopped thinking about him even when he’d tried like hell to.

Bob didn’t leave. He stopped halfway down the steps, shoulders tight, fists curling and uncurling like he couldn’t decide whether to throw another punch. John would deserve it. At least it would mean Bob would acknowledge him again. Feel his hands on his skin one more time. The silence between them was worse than the fight, dust settling slow in the glow of the light, both of them breathing hard like they’d gone three rounds in a bull pen. Finally, Bob turned back, his eyes cutting through the dark, pinning John in place.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Bob’s voice was low, disappointed, steady in a way that cut deeper than if he’d shouted. “You think stepping in tonight makes up for anything? That you can land a few punches and suddenly you’re not the same son of a bitch who couldn’t stand to be seen with me?”

John flinched like the words had been thrown. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. There was no good answer, and Bob knew it. Not without hashing out the same fight they had a near year ago. Bob shook his head, almost laughing, but there was nothing warm left in it. “You don’t get to pick and choose when you give a damn, John.”

The door banged open behind them, spilling more light onto the front steps. Yelena stepped out, sharp-eyed, scanning Bob first, then John. Her lips pressed flat in a way that told John exactly what she thought of him without a word passed between them.

“You alright?” she asked Bob, her tone brisk, her hand already brushing his arm like she was checking for breaks.

“Yeah, my old man hit harder than that.” Bad joke falling from Bob’s lips in that same flat tone he use to throw around with John.

“You done bleeding in the street then?” Yelena asks next.

Bob let out a long breath, not looking at John again. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m done.”

He let Yelena steer him down the rest of the steps and into the dark, leaving John standing alone in the dust, fists aching, chest burning with words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Chapter Text

The bunkhouse was quiet when John finally dragged himself back in long past midnight. Normal. Familiar. The kind of comfort John should’ve felt sinking down on his mattress after a long day. But his knuckles still throbbed, raw from the fight, and his jaw was tight enough to crack. He sat there in the dark, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the dust ground into his boots. Bob’s words wouldn’t leave him. You don’t get to pick and choose when you give a damn.

John pressed his palms hard against his eyes, like he could force the memory out. All he saw was Bob, porch light catching in his hair, bruised but unbowed. The same Bob who used to look at him like he hung the damn stars and the same Bob he’d let down harder than anyone else in his life. He told himself he’d stepped in at the bar because it was the right thing. Because Clay was a bastard, and John had never been able to stand by when someone was being cornered. That’s all it was. Just instinct. But the truth tasted bitter. He’d done it because it was Bob. Because he couldn’t help himself.

And Bob had seen clean right through it.

John lay back, staring at the ceiling beams in the dark, his body heavy but restless. He could already hear the questions his friends would throw at him in the morning. They’d want to know what the hell was between him and Bob, even more than they already did. And John still wouldn’t have an answer he was willing to give. Outside, the night stretched quiet and endless. Inside, John burned.

The sun wasn’t high yet, but the ranch kitchen was already humming. The smell of coffee and bacon clung to the air, and the battered table was crowded with chipped plates and mugs. Sam leaned back in his chair, boot propped on the rung, while Lemar worked through his second helping of eggs. Bucky nursed his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him upright, as Alpine the barn cat munch down on a stolen piece of bacon in his lap. John had slept maybe a total two hours, if he was being generous, hat pulled low to hide the fact. He aimed for the coffee pot without a word.

It didn’t work.

Sam leaned further back in his chair, smirking like he’d been sitting there waiting, watching each heavy footfall of John’s boots scrape against the wood. “Look who finally rolled outta bed. Town champ.”

Bucky didn’t smirk. He just stared into his mug, then up at John with that flat, cutting look that saw straight through most men. “You gonna explain what the hell that was last night.”

John kept his hat low. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, that wasn’t a question, we’re startin’,” Sam shot back. “You don’t swing at Clay Cooper unless you’re an idiot or you got somethin’ personal. And the only thing personal about last night was Bob standin’ there.”

John poured his coffee a little too hard. The splash burned his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. “I was keepin’ Clay from runnin’ his mouth too far,” John snapped. His voice came out harsher than he intended, but it was too late to reel it back. “He’s always been a bastard. Somebody had to shut him up.”

Bucky’s brow lifted, unimpressed. “Don’t spin it. Clay’s a drunk bastard every night of the week. Always pickin’ for a fight. Not worth you bruisin’ your knuckles over.”

Lemar set his fork down, leaning forward, voice steady but firm. “I saw the look on your face soon as Clay started talkin’ about Bob. You went off like a damn firecracker.”

The name hung there, sharp as a knife. John clenched his jaw, staring hard at his mug.

Bucky leaned in, voice low. “What’s between you and Bob?”

“Nothin’,” John muttered.

“Bullshit,” Sam snapped, sudden and sharp. “You two damn near tore the place down, then you bolted like your boots were on fire. Don’t feed us this nothin’ crap.”

John looked up then, eyes flashing. “It is nothin’. Clay was outta line. I did what anyone would’ve done.”

“Wrong, Bob could’ve easily held his own.” Lemar said, calm as ever, but unyielding. “Most men in that bar didn’t lift a damn finger. You did. And you did it for him.”

The silence stretched thick and heavy. John’s stomach twisted. He could feel the corner he was backed into, three men who’d ridden beside him, trusted him, refusing to let him squirm out. John’s hands tightened around his mug until his knuckles went white. Words clogged his throat. The truth was there, right on the tip of his tongue, sharp, dangerous, burning. But saying it would make it real. “We done here?” John rasped soft and quiet.

The silence stretched, tight as barbed wire. Sam finally broke it, voice softer than before but cutting just the same. “Come on, man. We ain’t stupid. Folks been whisperin’ for a long time. Just wanna hear it straight from you.”

John’s head snapped up. “Whisperin’ what?”

“That you and Bob weren’t just… ropin’ buddies,” Sam said bluntly.

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just added, “And after last night, I’d say it wasn’t just talk.”

John’s chest tightened like another cinch strap pulled too hard. He wanted to laugh it off, make a joke, something. But the words died bitter in his mouth. Lemar leaned forward then, elbows on the table, his gaze steady in a way that had always been hard to shake.

“You don’t owe this town a damn thing,” Lemar said carefully. “But you do owe yourself the truth.“

John’s throat worked. He looked down at his mug again, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. His jaw moved, clenched, unclenched. Finally, the words came, low and rough, like gravel under boots. “We were… together.” Even that was a lie though, wasn’t it? At least to himself. To Bob. To the whole damn reason.

The scrape of Sam’s chair stopped halfway, like he’d been about to push back from the table and thought better of it. Bucky’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on his mug eased. Lemar just gave a single slow nod, like he’d known all along.

John blew out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “It was a mistake. I wasn’t… hell, I’m still not ready for… all that. Not here. Not in this town. He wanted more than I could give, and I…” He broke off, staring hard at the wood grain in the table. “I let him down.”

Sam’s voice was quieter now, but still edged. “So you ran him off.”

John’s gut twisted. “He left on his own.”

“Because you gave him no choice,” Bucky said flatly.

John’s hands balled into fists at his sides. For a moment, he thought he might throw something just to break the tension pressing down on him. Instead, he forced himself to stand still, to swallow the fury, the shame, the ache that had been gnawing at him since Bob walked back into town.

Lemar was the only one who didn’t press further. He just said, “So what now?”

John didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The only thing he knew for certain was that Bob was back, and there wasn’t a damn thing John could do to keep the past buried anymore. The others drifted off after breakfast, leaving John alone in the kitchen with a half-empty coffee pot and the ringing echo of his own words.

We were… together.

He hadn’t meant to say it. God knew he’d spent the past year grinding that truth down, burying it beneath work and dust and rodeo bruises. If you didn’t say it out loud, maybe it didn’t count. Maybe it could stay folded up like an old letter you never read again.
But now it was out. Sam’s sharp eyes, Bucky’s silence, Lemar’s steady weight he could still feel them pressing on him, like they’d branded the truth into his skin.

~

The thought ate at John all damn night once more. He tossed in bed, staring at the ceiling fan turning slow circles overhead, replaying that look Bob had given him outside the bar. The fight hadn’t left bruises so much as it had left something festering deeper, the way Bob’s eyes had flinched, the sharp cut of his voice. By the next morning, John was pacing his room like a penned bull. Every instinct told him to leave it be. That Bob wanted nothing from him, not anymore, and certainly not an apology. But guilt pressed heavier than reason, and the truth of it sat raw in his gut. If he didn’t try, if he didn’t at least say it, he’d choke on it.

So John saddled up. Rode out under a sky washed pale by the late morning sun. The rhythm of the horse under him should’ve steadied his head. Usually it did. Not today. Every damn thing brought Bob back with it. The heat of the sun on his shoulders was Bob laughing, shirt sticking to his back after a day’s work, eyes crinkled and golden. The smell of leather was Bob’s old saddle, the one he’d oiled more than he ever did his boots. Even the silence, Bob had always filled silences in a way that didn’t feel heavy. A stray hum, a dumb joke, a quiet hand resting over John’s.

John gritted his teeth and pushed his horse harder. The memories didn’t fade. They clung. And then there was the bar. The way Bob had looked at him out on the street after the fight. Not grateful, not soft. Confused. Hurt. Almost angry that John had stepped in at all. John could still see it plain, the flicker in Bob’s eyes that said you don’t get to play hero now, not after everything. That cut deeper than Clay Cooper’s fists ever could.

The Shostakov ranch rose ahead of him, its white fences and sprawling barn set back from the road. It looked too damn quiet, too tidy compared to the storm in John’s chest. He slid off his horse, boots crunching on the red dirt drive, and walked up to the porch. His fist hovered for a long second before he finally knocked.

The door cracked open and Ava stared out at him, sharp-eyed and unimpressed as ever. She leaned one shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. “Well,” she said, voice flat. “If it isn’t the ‘Golden Boy’.”

John bit back a retort, jaw tightening. “Ava.”

She raised her brows, making no move to open the door wider. “What do you want?”

“I came to see him,” John said, the words rough, like gravel dragged across pavement.

Ava’s stare lingered, assessing him like a rancher eyeing a sick steer. Finally, she let the screen door creak open and tipped her head toward the back. “He’s in the barn. With the horses.”

John gave a stiff nod. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” she shot back. “He doesn’t need more trouble.”

The words followed him as he walked across the yard. The barn loomed large, doors propped open. Inside, shafts of sunlight cut through the dust, catching the sway of hay in the rafters. Horses shifted in their stalls, tails flicking. And there, down near the last stall, was Bob. He was brushing down a palomino, his shoulders steady with the rhythm of the strokes. Cleaner, sharper than John remembered him, but the sight still knocked the air right out of him. For a long moment, John just stood there, throat tight. Then finally, he cleared his voice. “Bobby.”

Bob stilled. Slowly, he turned. His eyes landed on John, and all the quiet in the barn went sharp. The mare flicked her ears back when Bob’s brush went still against her flank. He held it there, eyes fixed on John like he wasn’t sure if the man was real or just a ghost conjured up by old memory and dust.

John stood stiff in the barn’s entry, shoulders squared like he was bracing for a fist instead of words. Bob’s chest felt tight, too tight. He’d rehearsed this moment a hundred different ways since coming back, what he’d say if he ran into John again. Cold lines. A sneer. Maybe nothing at all. But none of those words came. All he could manage was a low rasp, equal parts worn-out and wary.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, Walker?” Bob’s voice carried, flat as the barn floor, though it wavered just a little at the end. A softness he hadn’t meant to show.

John shifted his weight, boots crunching in the straw. “I… I needed to talk to you.”

Bob huffed through his nose, shaking his head like he could chase the ache out of his chest. He went back to brushing the mare, long steady strokes, though his hand trembled against the handle.

“You don’t get to just show up here.” His tone was firmer this time, a fence line going up between them. “Not after everything.”

John didn’t step closer, but he didn’t leave either. His jaw worked, throat bobbing like the words were stuck somewhere he couldn’t swallow.

Bob stole a glance at him, and damn it all if he didn’t feel that crack of recognition in his gut the same pull that had never left, even when everything else had gone to hell. John looked older, wearier. Guilty, maybe. But underneath it, he was still the man Bob had once loved like wildfire.

Bob let out a low breath, eyes narrowing, but his voice softened against his will. “You look like hell,” he muttered. “What’s eatin’ you so bad you came all the way out here?” The brush slowed in his hand, but he didn’t put it down. He couldn’t, not when the distance it created was the only thing keeping him steady.

John’s took a step forward, stopped, then forced the words out before he lost his nerve. “I’m sorry.”

Bob’s brush stilled mid-stroke. He didn’t turn around this time. Just let the silence stretch, heavy as hay bales stacked high. “For what?” he asked finally, voice clipped.

John swallowed. “For the other night. The bar. I shouldn’t have-” He dragged in a breath, shook his head. “Shouldn’t have let it get that far. Shouldn’t have put you in that spot.”

Bob let out a dry laugh, sharp and bitter, though it caught somewhere in his throat. He turned just enough to look at him over his shoulder, eyes cutting like a knife but softer at the edges than he wanted them to be. “You’re apologizing… for the fight?”

John’s jaw worked. “Yeah. For the fight.”

Bob stared at him, really stared, like he was peeling the words apart to see if there was anything honest inside them. His chest hurt, and damn it, that was worse than the punches he was still nursing.

“You jumped in front of me like some damn hero, Walker. Then threw punches like it was still your job to save me from the world.” He shook his head, bitter edge creeping back in. “Playin’ white knight just ‘cause you felt guilty.”

John flinched, but he didn’t back down. He looked raw, stripped bare, every bit of bravado gone. “I just-“ His voice cracked low, almost a whisper. “I couldn’t stand there and do nothin’. Not with him talkin’ to you like that.”

The mare stamped her hoof, restless under the tension pressing thick in the barn. Bob exhaled slow, rubbing her flank to calm them both down. For the briefest moment, against his better judgment, he let himself soften. “Always was your problem,” he murmured. “Couldn’t just leave well enough alone.”

Bob finally set the brush down, the scrape of wood on the stall rail loud in the hush of the barn. He turned to face John fully now, shoulders squared, eyes dark with something that was part hurt, part challenge. “You rode all the way out here to apologize for a bar fight? That you didn’t start.” His voice was low, rough, like gravel under a boot heel.

John blinked, mouth opening then closing again. “I-“

“No.” Bob shook his head and stepped closer, close enough John caught the faint scent of hay and saddle soap clinging to him. “That ain’t it. Not the real reason.” He jabbed a finger at John’s chest, not hard but sharp enough to make John shift back a half step.

Bob followed, closing the space again. “Why’d you come, Walker?” His voice rose, breaking through the stillness of the barn. “Why the hell are you here after a year of nothin’? After leavin’ me to drown and actin’ like I didn’t exist?”

John’s throat worked. “Bobby-”

“Don’t you ‘Bobby’ me,” he snapped, shoving John lightly in the chest. The move wasn’t enough to topple him, but it made John’s boots scrape in the straw. “Say it. Whatever it is. ‘Cause if you’re just here to ease your conscience, you can turn right back around.”

John’s hands hovered useless at his sides, caught between wanting to push Bob back and wanting to reach for him. The anger in Bob’s face wavered, underneath it was the ache he’d been carrying since the day John walked away. His voice cracked with it, even as he shoved him again, harder this time. “Tell me why, Walker.” Another shove. “Why now?” Another. “Why here?” Anger building each time John refused to give him an answer.

John caught his wrist on the last push, not rough, just enough to still the shaking. His eyes burned with guilt and something he couldn’t name, couldn’t admit.

“I don’t know how to stay away from you.”
The words slipped out raw, like they’d been pulled from somewhere deep he’d spent a year trying to bury.

Bob’s breath hitched at John’s words, and for a second it looked like he might crumble. Instead, his jaw set, and he yanked his wrist free. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to show up after all this time and act like… like you’re the one hurtin’.”

John’s chest heaved. “I am hurtin’, Bob.” His voice sharpened, anger finally breaking loose. “You think it was easy for me? Walkin’ away from you? Pretendin’ like it didn’t gut me clean through?”

Bob shoved him again, harder. “You chose that, John! You chose the town over me. Chose your damn pride over us.” His voice cracked on the last word, but he didn’t stop. “Don’t you dare stand here like you’re the wounded one.”

John surged forward, crowding into his space, both hands braced on Bob’s shoulders now. Shoving him right back now. Making Bob’s boots stumble but he caught himself. “And what was I supposed to do? Huh? Let everybody know I was in love with you? Watch the whole town turn on us both? You think I wasn’t scared, Bob? You think I didn’t-“ John broke off, voice trembling with rage and regret. “I lost you that day too.”

Bob’s hands came up and shoved hard against his chest, but John didn’t move. Solid as stone. Instead, Bob found himself caught in the press of John’s grip, the weight of his words dragging at him. “You left me with nothin’,” Bob hissed. His fists bunched in John’s shirt now, not pushing so much as holding on, knuckles white. “No word, no fight worth havin’, nothin’.”

John’s eyes shone, jaw trembling like he was barely holding it together. “You weren’t the only one who drowned, Bob.”

The barn felt too small for all of it, the ghosts between them, the unsaid things bleeding finally into the open. They weren’t shouting now, not exactly; they were speaking in jagged bursts, voices low but sharp, like knives pressed against bare skin. Every word hurt because it was true. They stood chest to chest, breaths uneven, each shoving and pulling in equal measure, anger tangled up with something heavier neither could name aloud. John’s breath came ragged, his fingers still locked on Bob’s shoulders like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. His voice dropped, thick and hoarse.

“I made a mistake,” he forced out. “The biggest damn mistake of my life.”

Bob let out a humorless laugh, bitter as whiskey left in the sun. “Too late for sorry, Walker.”

“I’m not askin’ for forgiveness.” John shook his head, the words spilling before he could stop them. “I’m tellin’ you. I’ve missed you. Every goddamn day. Missed the way you look at me, the way you-” His voice cracked, and he shoved Bob back against the stall wall in frustration, but his hands never left him. “Hell, I missed fightin’ with you more than I like breathin’ without you.”

Bob’s eyes widened, caught between fury and something softer, dangerous. His fists bunched in John’s shirt, tugging him closer until their foreheads almost touched.

“You can’t come ridin’ back in like nothin’ happened.” Bob snarled, but his voice shook, betraying him. Shoving at John again, trying to get that inch of breath to steady his words.

John’s grip tightened at Bob’s waist, a rough, helpless sound tearing from his throat. “I know. I know I don’t deserve it. I never deserved you. But I can’t stop wantin’ you. Missin’ you. Hatin’ myself for what I did.”

The words were too close, too heavy, and suddenly they weren’t just shoving they were grappling, dragging each other closer in a desperate clash of hands and breath. Bob’s back hit the stall wall again, John crowding into him, both of them trembling with the force of everything unspoken finally breaking loose.

For a moment, it was impossible to tell if they were about to throw punches or… Bob’s lips parted, his breath harsh against John’s cheek.

John didn’t think, couldn’t. One second Bob’s words were cutting him open again, the next he had him pinned against the stall wall, his mouth crashing down over Bob’s like a man drowning and finally letting himself go under. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t clean. Bob shoved at him with both hands, teeth clashing against teeth, a low growl tearing out of his chest. Yet his fingers were already curling into John’s shirt, yanking him closer again.

“Goddamn you,” Bob rasped against his mouth, and then he was kissing him back, just as desperate, just as ruined.

John tried to break away, just enough to breathe, but Bob dragged him in by the collar, biting at his lip like punishment, like he wanted to make sure John felt every ounce of his anger. John answered in kind, gripping Bob’s jaw rough in his hand, kissing him so hard it hurt. It was a fight and a surrender all at once shoving, pulling, catching breath only to crash together again. Every time John tried to push off, Bob clawed him back in; every time Bob’s resolve faltered, John surged forward, refusing to let go.

“I hate you,” Bob breathed, the words trembling as John swallowed them in another kiss.

“I missed you,” John shot back, voice cracking, hands fisting in Bob’s hair.

The horses in the stalls shifted restlessly at the noise, hooves scuffing straw, but neither man heard. They were too caught in the ruin of it, the raw need bleeding through anger, the months of silence combusting into heat and fury and ache.

It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t healing. It was need, brutal and unstoppable. And neither one of them could pull away. The kiss didn’t stay contained. It couldn’t.

Bob’s back scraped against the stall wall as John pressed further into him, rough hands sliding down his sides, catching in the fabric of his shirt. Bob gasped into John’s mouth, shoving him hard, but even as he did, he dragged him back in by the belt loops, colliding again in a mess of teeth and need. The split in Bob’s lip busts open again with the taste of iron passed between them.

John’s palms were everywhere clutching at Bob’s waist, gripping his hips, sliding under the hem of his shirt like he was starved for the feel of him. Bob arched against him before he could stop himself, a strangled sound leaving his throat.

“Goddamn it,” Bob muttered, half into John’s beard, fingers fumbling at the buttons of John’s shirt like his body was betraying him.

John groaned, tugging at Bob’s belt, breath hot and desperate. “I can’t-” he choked out, kissing him harder, like the words themselves might undo him. “I can’t stay away from you.” he growled, his voice a low rumble in his chest.

John’s hips rolled forward, grinding the thick, denim-covered ridge of his dick against Bob's own straining erection. The friction was delicious, maddening, and it made John's blood run hotter in his veins. In an old rhythm that’s too easy to fall back into again. Bob’s hips lurched forward, the whine that nearly spilled from his lips, quickly swallowed by John. They’re pressed too tight together to finish. It didn’t matter, they were all lips and teeth and the sound of their breathing, raw and guttural.

And for one blazing moment, Bob almost let it happen. Almost gave in to the ache in his chest, the heat in his blood, the memory of everything he’d missed. But then reality hit, like ice water dumped on fire. Bob shoved John back, harder this time, enough to put real space between them. His chest heaved, eyes wide, mouth red and raw from the force of it.

“No,” Bob rasped, shaking his head. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand like he could erase it. “We can’t. I can’t.”

John froze, breath still ragged, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for Bob again or let him go. The sight of John, flushed, trembling, shirt hanging half off, nearly undid Bob all over again. But he held the line, even as it tore at him.

“You’re not going to walk in here, rip me open, and then… and then what, Walker? Pretend like it fixes anything?” Bob’s voice cracked, but his eyes stayed hard. “It don’t.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the air in the barn, broken only by the restless stomp of a horse nearby. John dropped his gaze, swallowing hard. “Bobby…” was all he could manage.

But Bob had already turned away, dragging his shirt back down, his shoulders closing off. Bob’s breath came sharp and uneven, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady enough.

“You need to go,” he said. Not loud, not cruel, just worn down to the bone. His hand flexed uselessly at his side, like he wanted to shove John again but didn’t have the strength left in him. “Before this gets any worse.”

John’s chest heaved. Every instinct in him screamed to close the distance, to fix it with another kiss, another touch but something in Bob’s eyes stopped him cold. It wasn’t anger. Not entirely. It was exhaustion. Hurt. That same quiet ache that had been there the day they’d split, when Bob had walked away with his heart half-shattered, and John had let him go out of cowardice.

John swallowed hard, throat tight. He gave a single nod. “Alright.” His voice cracked around the word, but he didn’t fight it.

For once in his stubborn life, John didn’t argue. Didn’t push. He stepped back, slow, the straw crunching under his boots as he put real space between them. Bob didn’t move, didn’t look at him again, just braced a hand on the stall wall like he was holding himself up.

John hesitated in the barn doorway, sunlight spilling in around him. “I’ll… I’ll give you space,” he said, voice rough.

Bob didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. John tipped his hat low, more out of habit than anything, and walked out into the blinding daylight, the ache in his chest heavier with every step. He knew he’d pushed too far, too fast, and it damn near killed him to leave it like that. The barn door creaked behind him, leaving Bob in shadow, breath still uneven, heart racing for reasons he didn’t want to admit.

Chapter Text

The barn smelled of hay, leather, and dust, the kind of smell that usually settled Bob’s nerves. Today, though, it sat heavy in his chest. He’d been standing in the same spot for who knows how long, hand braced on the stall door like he still needed it to hold himself up. The horses had gone quiet, picking at their feed, their steady chewing the only sound. Fat tear drops landed in the dust beneath his boots. Bob dragged a hand down his face, the scrape of his calloused palm against stubble grounding him, each exhale a shaky sob. His lips still tingled. His chest still hurt. Crying over Walker. Again. The barn door creaked again, softer this time. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“You going to stand there all night?” Yelena’s voice came from behind him, dry as desert air.

Bob turned his head just enough to see her leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, one brow raised.

“Thought you were in town,” he muttered.

“Got bored. Came back early.” Her gaze flicked over him, softening when she sees the full pathetic state of him. “Got to watch the show.”

Bob stiffened. “What show?”

She snorted. “Don’t play dumb, Bob. You and Walker damn near tore each other’s clothes off in here.” She tilted her head, considering him for a moment. “And then…. you threw him out.”

Bob huffed out a sound that was almost a laugh, but it caught sharp in his throat. “You saw.”

“I saw.”

Bob’s throat tightened. “He shouldn’t have come,” he said, the words heavier than he meant them to. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated.” Yelena pushed off the doorframe, stepping into the barn. “That’s one word for it. Another would be ‘messy.’ Another would be ‘unfinished.’”

Bob let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “You don’t get it.”

“No,” she agreed easily. “I don’t. But I saw your face when he kissed you. And I saw his when you shoved him away. You both looked like you were being ripped in half.”

Her words hit deeper than he wanted them to. Bob leaned against the stall, staring at the packed dirt floor. “It’s not that simple.”

Yelena studied him for a long beat, then softened, just barely. “You’re clean now. You’ve worked too damn hard to get steady again. Don’t let him come stormin’ back into your life and knock you off balance. Again.”

Bob swallowed hard, guilt and want tangled up inside him like barbed wire. “I know.” His voice cracked. “God, I know.”

Yelena reached out, laid a hand briefly on his shoulder. “Then breathe. Sleep. And let him stew in his own guilt for a while. If he wants you, really wants you, he’ll prove it the right way this time.”

Bob let out a tired laugh, shaky and hollow. “You sound like you know him.”

“I know his type,” Yelena said, smirking faintly. “And I know you. Which means I know you’re not done with him. Not by a long shot.”

Bob shifted his weight, restless, like the straw under his boots might start burning if he stood still too long. He kept his gaze fixed on the stall door, but his voice came low, careful, as if saying it too plain might break something inside him. “I don’t know what the hell to do with him,” he muttered.

Yelena tilted her head. “With Walker?”

Bob’s mouth twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. “With myself, if I’m being honest.” He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard, feeling the tears welling up back in his eyes again. “I spent a year digging out of the hole I’d put myself in. Getting clean. Getting quiet. Trying to forget how bad it hurt when he left.” His voice hitched, just enough to betray the steadiness he tried to carry. “And then he walks in like no time passed at all and-“ His throat closed up before he could finish.

Yelena didn’t rush him. Just waited, arms crossed, sharp eyes softening in the stillness.

Bob shook his head, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow. “I’m not stupid. I know he’s not ready. He wasn’t then, and maybe he ain’t now. But-” His voice cracked, softer now. Wiping away the tears before they could fall this time. “Fuck me, I still love him.”

The words hung in the air, raw and heavy, like he’d just laid down a burden he hadn’t meant to share.

Yelena stepped closer, her expression unreadable for a moment before she spoke. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

Bob’s jaw tightened. He swiped a hand across his mouth, like he could push the confession back inside. “Don’t matter what I feel if he can’t give me what I need. I can’t go back to being a secret. Not after all this.”

Yelena’s hand brushed his arm, a brief, grounding touch. Before pulling Bob into a tight embrace. “Then don’t. Let him figure it out. If he wants you, really wants you, he’ll have to come to you as he is, no hiding. Until then? You keep your balance.”

Bob nodded, but the ache in his chest didn’t ease. It throbbed steady, insistent, like the truth he’d finally said aloud had only made it more real. When Yelena finally left him alone, the barn went still again. Just the sound of a horse shifting in its stall, the faint rustle of hay, the creak of wood under old nails. Bob leaned back against the door, eyes closed, letting his head rest against the rough beam. His pulse had finally slowed, but the ache hadn’t left. If anything, it sat heavier now, the words he’d let slip to Yelena still ringing in his ears.

I still love him.

He’d carried that truth for months, buried under grit and determination, under sweat and long days that left him too tired to think. But the second John Walker had stood in front of him again, eyes all fire and guilt, the dam cracked wide open.

Bob cursed under his breath. “Damn fool.” He wasn’t sure if he meant John, himself, or both of them.

The horses snorted softly, and he found himself moving, brushing a hand over a warm flank, giving the animal something steady to lean on since he couldn’t manage it for himself. The familiar weight of work mucking stalls, filling feed buckets, brushing should’ve brought him back to earth. Usually did.

Except, everywhere he turned, John was there. In the memory of his laugh, the warmth of his hands, the sound of his boots hitting the dirt. And in the memory of the way it had ended: cold words, slammed doors, silence that lasted a year. Bob leaned his forehead against the horse’s shoulder, fingers curling into coarse mane. He wanted him back. Wanted the way John used to look at him when no one was around. Wanted to believe maybe it could be different now. But wanting didn’t make it safe. He’d worked too damn hard to crawl out of the pit he’d been in, to hold steady without the drugs, without the chaos. Letting John back in half-ready, half-scared might just be the thing that broke him for good.

Bob let out a long, shaky breath, eyes burning. “Not again,” he whispered to the dark. “Can’t do it again.” But the truth cut sharp underneath it all: he didn’t know if he’d have the strength to keep pushing John away. Not if John kept looking at him like he did today.

~

The weeks that followed settled into something almost like normal again. Almost.

Bob kept his head down at the ranch, rising with the sun, ending his days bone-tired in a way that made it easier to sleep. He kept steady. The rhythm of work, the easy bluntness of Alexei, Ava, and Yelena’s company over dinners, the grounding comfort of horses. But the town was too small for any true distance. He saw John everywhere.

Not up close, not enough to reopen the wound, but just enough to remind him it was still there. At the feed store, where John was leaning over the counter trading jokes with Lemar, that laugh of his carrying across the room until Bob felt it in his chest. At the diner, when Bob stopped in for a milkshake and spotted John across the room with Bucky and Sam, that familiar slouch in his chair, eyes flicking up just long enough to meet Bob’s before sliding away.

Each time, it was the same: a pause, the faintest flicker of recognition, and then John gave him a small, tight smile. Not the open grin Bob remembered, not the kind that lit up his whole face, but something quieter. An offering. And every damn time, Bob found himself returning it. Couldn’t help it. Then they’d both look away. Keep moving. Pretend the air wasn’t charged with all the things unsaid. It was safer that way. Safer for Bob’s fragile balance, for the life he’d managed to rebuild brick by careful brick.

But in the quiet moments late at night, lying awake staring at the ceiling, or out in the barn with the horses when the world went still, he wondered if maybe he was just fooling himself. If maybe those smiles weren’t just politeness, but something more. If maybe John truly missed him just as much.

By the time the rodeo rolled around, the whole town buzzed with it. Posters slapped on every fence post and shop window, talk in every corner about who’d ride, who’d rope, who’d take home the prize. Bob told himself he didn’t care. That it was just another weekend, just another excuse for folks to get drunk and loud. But when Yelena caught him staring a little too long at the flyer tacked on the feed store wall, she smirked.

“You’re going,” she said flatly, no question in it.

Bob rolled his eyes, tugging the brim of his black hat lower. “Ain’t much point.”

“There’s always a point,” Yelena replied, sharp and knowing. “Especially when Walker’s ridin’.”

Bob’s stomach turned traitorously at the sound of his name. He kept his face even. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Sure you don’t.” She gave his arm a shove. “Wear a clean shirt. You don’t want to look pathetic in the stands.”

Bob snorted, but he didn’t argue. Because she was right. He was already planning to be there. And he hated himself a little for it.

~

The Wilson ranch sat a little ways out of town, all sun-bleached fences and wide open pasture that rolled down toward the creek. Bob had been sent to drop off some tools Ava had borrowed, a post driver and a coil of wire, heavy in the bed of the old pickup. It was a simple errand, nothing more, and he told himself he’d be in and out before anyone had reason to stop him. Of course, that had been nothing more than wishful thinking.

He spotted John before John spotted him out near the barn, hat pushed back, sleeves rolled high as he hoisted a bale like it weighed nothing. His shoulders caught the sunlight, broad and easy in a way Bob had spent a year trying to forget. It didn’t take long before John’s head lifted, his eyes catching on Bob like the sun had shifted. For a beat, neither moved. Then John wiped his hands on his jeans and started toward the truck. Bob swallowed hard, as he pulled up next to the barn, busying himself by getting out and messing with the load in the back. By the time John reached him, it was too late to pretend he hadn’t seen him coming. Of course, Lemar, Sam or Bucky were elsewhere. It just had to be him Bob ran into.

“Bob.” John said, voice cautious but steady.

“Walker.” Bob tipped his hat, kept his tone polite. He nodded toward the barn. “Just droppin’ some things off Ava borrowed from Sam.”

John glanced at the tools, then back at him, like he couldn’t quite figure out what to do with his hands. “Appreciate it.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and awkward. Until Bob tilted his head towards the truck bed letting John help. Giving them both the air to breathe in the stillness. When the last of the wire was rolled into the barn, Bob dusted his hands and made for the truck like it might still save him. He swung up into the cab, shut the door a little too hard, and jammed the key into the ignition. The old Chevy coughed, sputtered, and went dead. Bob muttered under his breath and tried again. Same stutter, same silence after.

From outside, he heard John’s voice, careful, carrying. “Need a hand?”

Bob gritted his teeth, kept his eyes on the cracked dash. “She just takes a minute. I got it.” He turned the key again. The engine whined, caught for half a heartbeat, then quit.

“Mmhm,” John said, the sound threaded through with patience that made Bob’s shoulders knot tighter, irritated with the know it all attitude John’s face was wearing if Bob looked over.

Bob tried twice more, harder each time, as if he could strong-arm the truck into obeying. Nothing. Just a wheeze and a rattle that sounded like mockery. He let the key drop, pressed his forehead against the steering wheel. Debating if his pride was worth the walk back home. Outside, boots scuffed on dirt, John hadn’t budged a single step.

“Alright,” Bob muttered finally, shoving the door open. He stepped down, not quite meeting John’s eyes. “Maybe you take a look.”

John’s mouth twitched not a smile, not exactly, but close. “Was waitin’ on you to say it.”

Bob swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. He hated how small it made him feel, hated more how much relief stirred beneath it. Having to rely on John to come in and save the day again. John rounded the truck, sleeves still shoved up, forearms dusted with hay and sun. Bob trailed after, watching him pop under the hood like it was the most natural thing in the world, like no years had passed, like no wreckage stood between them.

John propped the hood with one hand, the other already reaching into the tangle of hoses and rust. “Starter’s stickin’,” he muttered. “Ain’t surprised. These old Chevys’ll run through a war, but they get temperamental when it’s hot.”

Bob crowded in beside him before he could stop himself, as sweat was already slicking the back of his neck. “No, it’s probably the plugs, that was the problem last time.” Bob said, leaning over the fender.

John huffed. “Plugs are fine. Starter’s the problem.”

“You don’t know that.” Bob shoved his arm in, bumping John’s elbow.

“Would you-“ John exhaled sharply shifting to make room for both of them. “You wanna fix it, or you wanna break somethin’ else?”

The sun beat down hard, the cab’s metal radiating heat. Rolling sweat down his forearms. Bob didn’t acknowledge John’s stare, though he felt it, hot as the sun itself. They ended up shoulder to shoulder, both bent over the same narrow space, brushing against each other every time they reached for the same bolt or wire. Bob muttered curses under his breath, fingers slipping against greasy metal. John steadied the wrench without comment, his hand firm over Bob’s for a beat too long before letting go.

“Hold it there,” John said, voice low. Bob did, jaw tight, and this time they moved together, careful and precise, until the last stubborn connection clicked into place.

“Alright. Try her now.” John said stepping back.

Bob slid back into the cab, turned the key. The engine sputtered, caught, then roared alive, rattling the frame. Relief hit harder than it should’ve, buzzing through his chest. He climbed out and brushed his palms on his jeans.

“Guess I owe you one,” he muttered, not quite meeting John’s eyes.

John was wiping the grease from his hands. His gaze lingered, steady, too open. “Or…” His voice had gone softer, almost careful. “I’d wager we could just call it more than even.”

The words landed heavier than they should’ve, carrying more history than the truck between them. For a moment Bob didn’t breathe, didn’t move, just felt the weight of it settle in his chest. Leaving John’s words unsaid, because Bob wasn’t sure what to say to that. He dropped the hood with a hollow clang, the sound sharp enough to make both of them flinch. For a second, it seemed like John might say something more, his mouth opened, then shut again, jaw tightening.

Bob didn’t give him the chance. He climbed into the cab, slammed the door, and set his hands on the wheel. The truck’s engine throbbed under him, steady now, alive because of John’s hands, and that fact alone made his chest ache. Before Bob could shift it gear John came up and rested an arm against the open window.

Then, out of nowhere it seemed, John asked, “You goin’ to the rodeo?”

Bob blinked. Of all the things he expected, that wasn’t on the list. He shifted his weight, thumb rubbing along the ridges on the steering wheel. “Don’t know yet.” he said carefully.

John’s jaw worked, like he was chewing on something he couldn’t spit out. When he finally spoke again, the words came rougher, more honest than maybe he meant them to. “Would you… come, if you knew I wanted you there?”

The air went still. Bob felt it lodge in his chest, sharp and heavy all at once. He stared at John, searching his face, half-waiting for the smirk, the backpedal, the joke to make it nothing. But John didn’t look away. His eyes were open, unguarded in a way Bob hadn’t seen in a long time. Maybe ever. Bob’s throat tightened. He wanted to say yes, he wanted to, but the old hurt flared up just as quick. It never use to be a question, the rodeo just a fact of life between them, Bob would bull ride while John handled bucking broncs. Giving each other shit over whose ride was better. Inevitability Bob ending up bent over a hay bale to burn off the adrenaline afterwards. The memory of being hidden, of being something John was too scared to name in daylight.

“I don’t know,” Bob said finally, voice low. Honest.

John nodded, too quick, covering the sting with a tight pull of his mouth. “Right. Sure.“

Bob tipped his hat once in rough acknowledgment before throwing the truck into gear. Gravel spat from the tires as he pulled away, the ranch shrinking in his rearview. He didn’t look back, not once. But the weight of John’s stare lingered all the way down the road, heavy as the sun on his shoulders.

~

The rodeo came in on the wind like a storm. Trailers rattling down the dirt road, banners strung across Main Street, the smell of grilled meat drifting from every corner. By the time Bob, Yelena, and Ava pulled up in the truck, the fairgrounds were already buzzing, half the town packed into the stands. When Yelena killed the engine Bob sat there for a beat too long, staring out at the rows of dust-caked pickups, the bright flare of kids darting between legs with snow cones, the clang of restless metal gates. His chest felt tight.

Yelena popped her door open, unimpressed. “Are you going sit here all night or are you going to get out?”

Bob exhaled through his nose, tried for a wry smile. “Was thinkin’ about the first option.”

Ava leaned back in to jab him in the shoulder. “Come on. Maybe Walker gets thrown tonight. Wouldn’t want to miss that would you?”

Bob snorted shaking his head. He might’ve talked himself into coming, but he wasn’t sure he would’ve followed through if Yelena hadn’t climbed in the drivers seat and Ava sandwiching him into the middle seat. So he shoved the door open, boots hitting dirt, and fell in step beside them.

The crowd thickened as they neared the stands faces familiar from every corner of town, voices calling greetings, laughter spilling out like whiskey. Bob kept his head low, answering with polite nods, the heat of too many eyes pricking his skin. Yelena, unconcerned, marched ahead and bought them each tickets without a second glance. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the electric hum of anticipation. The arena stretched wide and bright under the floodlights, horses shifting behind the chutes, riders pacing like caged fire.

“Come on. Let’s find a seat before you pass out from nerves.” Ava hooked an arm around his elbow following behind Yelena.

Bob followed her up into the stands, every step heavy. The crowd roared around them, but all he could feel was the thrum of his pulse, the way John’s image burned against the inside of his skull. He told himself he was here for the show, for the town, for the noise and distraction. He told himself it didn’t matter if John knew he was here or not. They’d just started up the bleachers when a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Yelena! Ava! Bob!”

Bob glanced down and there they were Sam, Bucky, and Lemar, camped out front row center like they owned the place. All three were grinning, hats tipped back, beers in hand. Sam was the one waving, gesturing to the three empty seats beside them.

Bob hesitated, half-ready to keep climbing, but Yelena didn’t give him the chance. She caught his sleeve, tugged them both down with a sharp, “Front row. Let’s go.”

The walk to those seats felt longer than it should’ve. Bob could feel the weight of the guys’ eyes on him, curious but not unkind. Bucky scooted down, making space.

“Well, well,” Sam said, leaning back with a smirk. “Look who decided to show.”

“Evenin’,” Bob said evenly, sliding into the seat beside. Yelena and Ava plopped down on his other side, wholly unconcerned.

Bucky tipped his beer toward him in greeting, steel eyes sharp with something quieter, more knowing. “Didn’t think rodeos were your thing anymore.”

“They’re not,” Bob admitted, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice came out drier than he meant. “But figured I’d make an exception.”

Lemar chuckled. “Hell of a night to pick. Walker’s up soon.”

The name landed between them like a thrown stone, rippling outward. Bob kept his face smooth, only his fingers betraying him, drumming against the railing. Yelena leaned forward, eyes on the arena, breaking the silence. “Good,” she said simply. “I like to see who I’m betting on.”

The guys laughed, the easy kind that rolled over the noise of the crowd. Bob forced a small smile, though his pulse had kicked up hard. Because sure enough, John was down by the gates, hat in hand, head bowed as he tightened the strap on a bronc’s flank. His shoulders moved with calm efficiency, no wasted motion, like the animal beneath him wasn’t bred for nothing but to buck him half to death. Bob’s throat went dry, he shifted, pretending to study the arena.

Yelena noticed anyway. She leaned in, voice sly. “He looks good,” she said.

Bob shot her a glare. “Don’t.”

“What? He does. Even I can admit that much.” She smirked, then clapped her hands together as the announcer’s voice boomed over the speakers, rattling the stands.

And then John glanced up. Just a sweep of the crowd, casual, automatic until it wasn’t. His gaze snagged. Frozen. Landed square on Bob in the front row. Bob’s breath hitched. His instinct was to drop his eyes, hide under the brim of his hat. But Yelena elbowed him lightly, smirking. “You gonna blink, or just keep starin’?” Sam noticed too, his grin turning sharper.

Bob ignored them all, forcing himself to lean back, to look like the sight of John back in the arena hadn’t just torn the ground out from under him. But his heart was hammering, and he knew it showed, no matter how still he sat. The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers, rattling metal and bone. “Next up, the Golden Boy himself, John Walker! Riding Battlestar, three-time buckin’ stock champion!”

The crowd roared. Folks clapped, kids hollered, hats waved in the air. John swung into the chute like he’d been born there, one boot braced, rope wrapped snug in his grip. For a moment he sat still, head bowed beneath the brim of his hat, breath steadying. Then the gate crashed open. Battlestar exploded into the arena, a fury of muscle and dust. John moved with him, not against him every buck, every lunge met with iron balance, his free hand slicing the air like it could cut gravity itself.

“Eight seconds!” the announcer shouted, the crowd erupting as the buzzer blared. John leapt clean off, landing light, arms raised in victory.

Beside Bob, Sam let out a low whistle. “Damn. He makes it look easy.”

“Because he’s insane,” Bucky muttered, though his grin betrayed him.

Bob said nothing, jaw tight. His pulse hadn’t settled since John’s gaze found him. Watching him out there untouchable, everything Bob remembered and everything that still hurt, it felt like being caught in a current he couldn’t fight. And it didn’t stop there. Round after round, John came out swinging. First the broncs, then the roping. He cut through each event with that same stubborn precision, his body speaking a language of grit and control that left no room for doubt. By the time he dropped his last calf, roped clean in record time, the announcer was shouting into the mic that Walker was the man to beat tonight.

The stands thundered approval. Sam slapped Bucky on the back. Lemar hollered, “That’s our boy, Walker!” like he was the one who trained him.

Bob managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Every cheer felt sharper, digging under his skin. He hated himself for the pride that welled up anyway, uninvited. Hated the way his chest ached seeing John stand there, shoulders heaving, face split by that rare, unstoppable grin.

Yelena, cool as ever, leaned toward him again. “So,” she said, voice sly enough to slip under the noise. “Still think this was a bad idea comin’ here?”

Bob huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. His knuckles tapped restlessly against his knee. “Ask me when the night’s over.”

Because if John Walker kept winning like this, it wouldn’t just be the rodeo he walked away from in the spotlight, it’d be Bob’s damn heart pulled right back into his orbit, whether he wanted it or not.

By the final round, the air itself seemed to crackle. Dust clung to the lights, the arena a haze of kicked-up earth and sweat. Every time John cleared an event, the cheers grew louder, more fevered. He’d become the story of the night the hometown hero putting on a show nobody could touch. Bob sat stiff in his seat, heart hammering, each of John’s wins landing like a strike against his ribs. Pride curled sharp in his chest, tangled with everything else regret, longing, that hollow ache that hadn’t gone away in the year between them. He tried not to let it show. Tried and failed. And then it was over.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer bellowed, “give it up for your rodeo champion, John Walker!”

The stands erupted. People were on their feet, stomping, clapping, screaming his name. Hats flew into the air. The whole town was alive with it, all eyes locked on one man. John stood in the middle of the arena, sweat-soaked and dust-streaked, chest rising hard beneath his shirt. He took it in for a breath, shoulders squared against the roar of their approval. But then, he turned his head, and he saw Bob. Front row, pressed close among his friends, gaze fixed on him despite himself.

John’s grin faltered into something smaller, sharper. Then he strode toward the rail. The crowd surged. John ignored them all. Boots crunching dirt, he closed the gap, climbed up the fence one rung, then another, until he was level with the front row. Close enough Bob could see the wild shine in his eyes, the flush on his face. Bob’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

“Walker-“ he started, but the word barely left his mouth before John leaned in.

One hand braced on the rail, the other catching Bob’s collar, hauling him in, and then John kissed him. Not careful. Not quiet. A hard, hungry press of lips that broke the noise of the arena wide open. The crowd gasped, a ripple tearing through it like a dropped stone in still water. For a heartbeat the whole town seemed to hang suspended, caught between disbelief and the sharp intake of breath before something breaks. Bob froze, every nerve alight. His first instinct was to shove John back, to push away from the firestorm he knew this would bring. But his hands betrayed him, fisting in John’s shirt, dragging him closer. And for one dizzy, reckless moment, he kissed him back. Knocking Bob’s hat off behind him, as John deepened the kiss into something filthy, and undeniably a claim over him.

The noise swelled, hundred voices crashing together, but it might as well have been thunder on some far-off ridge for all Bob registered. The world shrank to John. His hand fisted in Bob’s shirt, the press of his mouth, the heat of his body strung tight with adrenaline and dust. Bob’s pulse was a drum in his ears, his breath stolen. It was reckless, stupid, everything he’d been afraid of. But it was also John, and help him, that was something he could never stop wanting.

When John finally broke the kiss, it wasn’t far. His forehead rested against Bob’s, breath hot, both of them gasping like they’d just gone eight seconds on the same bull. The crowd still roared around them shouts, whistles, curses but it all dulled at the edges, muffled by the space between them.

John’s voice was raw, meant only for Bob. “I’m done,” he rasped, fingers tightening at Bob’s collar as if daring him to believe it. “I’m done hidin’. Done keepin’ secrets.”

Bob’s eyes searched his, wide and startled, like the ground had just shifted beneath him. His mouth opened, but no sound came. All he could hear was the conviction in John’s words. John’s breath ghosted across Bob’s lips, ragged and fierce, the taste of grit and sweat still clinging from the kiss. His hand stayed fast in Bob’s collar, not dragging him closer now but not letting go either, like if he did, Bob might vanish back into the crowd, into the year of distance that had already damn near hollowed him out. Bob’s chest heaved caught in a snare he couldn’t fight his way free from. His knuckles whitened where they gripped John’s shirt, the instinct to shove him away locked in a dead heat with the ache to pull him closer, hold on, just one more second.

“You don’t mean that,” Bob managed, the words rough and thin, drowned almost by the roar of the arena.

John’s eyes burned with something steadier than all the noise, all the chaos around them. “I do.” His voice cracked, but his jaw stayed set. “I ain’t runnin’ anymore, Bobby.”

For a heartbeat longer, it was only them. The world narrowed to the tight press of foreheads, the pounding of their hearts like war drums, the dizzy heat of all the things that had been buried too long and clawed their way to the surface now. Bob swallowed hard, throat tight, his eyes closing for a flicker of mercy against the weight of it all. He’d dreamed of hearing those words. He’d been terrified of them, too. When he opened his eyes again, John was still there, unflinching, the whole town be damned. For one suspended moment, Bob just let himself look at him. Really look at the flush of John’s cheeks, the sweat running down the side of his neck, the fierce, unshakable light in his eyes.

This wasn’t the John who’d flinched from him in the dark, who’d pushed his love into the shadows with whispered excuses and half-kept promises. This was John Walker standing tall in front of the whole damn town, dust-streaked and unbowed, declaring with every inch of him that he wanted Bob. All of him. And Bob felt something give. A knot deep in his chest finally loosened, trembling on the edge of breaking. He almost said his name. Almost said, I still love you, you bastard. But his throat was thick, choked with too many things to untangle.

Instead, John leaned back just enough to reach up and tug the white Stetson off his own head. The gesture was slow, deliberate, like he knew what it meant before he even did it. The crowd was still a storm all around them, but none of that mattered. John looked at Bob with something raw in his eyes, and then he set the hat gently on Bob’s head. It fit a little crooked, the brim shadowing Bob’s face, but the weight of it settled heavy, steady. Like a claim. Like a promise. Bob froze, breath caught halfway in his chest, the leather and sweat of John’s hat warm against his temples. His hand came up without thinking, fingers brushing the brim, holding it there as if to make sure it was real. John’s hand lingered too, fingertips brushing the crown just above Bob’s ear before he finally pulled back a fraction, still close enough their breath mingled.

“I mean it,” John said again, softer now but no less sure. “All of it. You. Me. No more secrets.”

Chapter Text

The gravel lot was buzzing with trucks firing up and families piling in, headlights cutting white lines through the dark. Dust still hung in the air, stirred up by boots and tires, the smell of fried food and manure lingering. John walked with his arm around Bob’s shoulders, close enough that every step brushed their hips together. He half-expected someone in the crowd to shout something ugly, but it never came, not tonight. Folks stared, sure. Whispered, maybe. But Yelena, Sam, Lemar, Bucky, and Ava flanked them easily, loud and bright in their laughter, making it clear to anyone watching that they weren’t alone.

“Man, you should’ve seen the look on Clay’s face,” Sam said, grinning wide. “Looked like he swallowed his damn tongue when Walker leaned in.”

“Best part of the whole night,” Lemar agreed. “And you know, the eight seconds were pretty damn impressive too.”

John felt his ears heat, but the warmth in his chest drowned out the embarrassment. He gave Bob’s shoulder a small squeeze, as if to say ‘see? it ain’t just you anymore.’ Bob was quiet, but the kind of quiet that felt full instead of hollow. His hand brushed once at the brim of John’s white hat still on his head, adjusting it like he couldn’t quite believe it was his to wear. By the time they reached the row of trucks, Ava and Yelena had peeled ahead, already unlocking her beat-up Chevy. Bob lingered a step behind Yelena, slowing down as if gravity itself had doubled, his body still pressed against John’s side.

“I, uh-“ Bob said at last, voice low, tugging at the hat brim.

John’s arm tightened before he could finish, words tumbling out quicker than he meant. “Let me take you home.”

The sound of it seemed to hang there between them, louder than the revving engines, louder than the laughter drifting across the lot. John’s throat went dry, but he didn’t let go. Bob blinked up at him, caught off guard, like he wasn’t sure if John was asking out of habit, out of pride, or something more real. Behind them, Sam let out a low whistle, elbowing Bucky.

“About damn time.” Lemar said under his breath.

John didn’t hear them. He only watched Bob, his heart hammering hard enough it felt like it might shake loose from his ribs, waiting for his answer. Bob’s first instinct was to stall, to duck his head and shake off John’s arm, to mumble something about Yelena already having a seat saved for him. But then John’s hand gave the smallest squeeze against his shoulder, steady, sure, asking without forcing.

And for the first time in a long time, Bob didn’t want to walk away. “…Yeah,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain. “Alright. You can take me home.”

John’s shoulders eased, some tightness bleeding out of him, though his jaw was still set like he was waiting for the floor to fall out from under him. Yelena had just swung open the driver’s door when she caught the exchange. She leaned an elbow on the top of the door and cocked her head, her eyes flicking between them. Then a grin tugged at her mouth, sharp as ever.

“You know what they say, Bob,” she drawled. “Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.”

Bob groaned, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, Yelena.”

But Yelena just winked, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Don’t screw it up, Walker,” she called out, pointing a finger toward John before slamming the door.

John didn’t answer, just opened the passenger side door of his red Ford and tipped his head toward it. Bob hesitated for half a second, then climbed in, the old, familiar leather seat creaking under his weight. By the time John slid behind the wheel, the noise of the lot seemed a mile away. The cab was quiet, thick with the smell of dust, John’s cologne, and words unsaid. John started the engine, the headlights cutting a path through the night. For a moment, neither spoke. But Bob could feel it, the way John’s knuckles tightened on the wheel, the way he glanced over like he wanted to say everything all at once.

The pickup rattled along the dirt road, headlights catching on fence posts and stray tufts of grass. Inside the cab, the air felt thick. Not tense exactly, but charged, as though every sound mattered too much. The low hum of the engine. The squeak of the springs under the bench seat. The steady tap of John’s thumb against the steering wheel. Bob sat angled toward the window, hat tipped low. He told himself he was watching the stars blink through the glass, but the truth was, he was watching the reflection of John’s jaw. Tight and shadowed, the set of a man keeping something locked in tight, and Bob wanted to know what else John hadn’t said.

When the road dipped, John shifted his grip. His left hand stayed steady on the wheel, but his right reached down slow, almost hesitant, and came to rest on Bob’s knee. It wasn’t heavy. Just the weight of his palm, warm through the worn denim. A wordless promise, maybe, or an apology that had no shape in his mouth yet. John’s thumb brushed once, slow, like he wasn’t even aware he’d done it. Bob’s chest squeezed. He didn’t shake him off.

They drove like that for miles, no words, just the quiet hum of tires on dirt and the rise and fall of their breathing. Bob had half convinced himself John was taking the long way back until the truck jolted over a familiar rut in the road. Bob blinked, sat up straighter. He knew this path. His heart stuttered.

“John…” His voice caught, rougher than he meant. “This ain’t the way back to town.”

John didn’t answer, just gave the smallest lift of his chin toward the windshield. The headlights cut over a ridge he knew by heart, the wide bowl of sky stretching endless above it, the kind of place the world always felt too big and too close at once. The ridge. Their ridge. A place they used to run to when the walls of town got too tight, when secrets burned holes in John’s chest, when Bob needed to breathe without anyone watching. Nights they’d lain out under the stars, shoulder to shoulder, hands brushing, hearts daring to admit what their mouths couldn’t. Nights they’d kissed like the sky itself was the only witness that mattered.

Bob’s stomach flipped. His first instinct was to stiffen, guard up, ready to ask John what the hell he thought he was doing dragging him here. But the words tangled somewhere in his throat. Because truth was, he’d thought about this place every damn night since he’d come back. John eased the pickup to a slow crawl at the top of the ridge, the tires crunching over gravel until the truck settled into the same shallow groove it always had. Like no time at all had passed. He killed the engine, and the sudden silence wrapped around them thick as a blanket, the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, but alive with crickets and the far-off bark of a coyote.

The stars stretched endless above, clear and sharp, spilling like white fire across the summer dark. Neither said a word as John climbed out first, not needing to ask Bob to follow. It was all muscle memory. John popping the tailgate with a familiar clatter, Bob bracing his hand on the edge to swing himself up, boots thudding against the metal. John followed, moving with the same ease, like they’d done it a hundred times before. And they had. Now they sat shoulder to shoulder on the open truck bed, legs dangling over the bumper, the sky washing over their faces. Just like they used to.

Bob swallowed hard. The smell of dust and brush drifted on the warm breeze, and with it came memories. Kisses stolen with laughter still on their lips, whispered confessions John had buried by morning, the heady rush of wanting what they weren’t allowed to claim in daylight. Then John shifted. Not much, just enough that his boot tapped Bob’s, just enough that Bob could feel him gathering words like stones in his hands. His fingers drummed once against the metal edge beneath them, stopped, then curled tight in a fist against his knee. Bob turned, studying the line of his profile. Jaw taut. Eyes fixed straight ahead, as if the whole valley could hand him courage.

“John…” Bob started first, quiet, not sure what he was even asking.

John let out a rough breath. Shook his head once. Then finally turned toward him, eyes catching starlight.

“I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore,” John said, voice low but steady, like every word had been wrestled free. “Not about you. Not about us. Not one damn second longer.”

The night seemed to hold still, waiting. Bob’s chest tightened. He felt every old scar tug, every wall he’d built to keep himself steady. But sitting there, the truck bed cold under them, the sky wide open he couldn’t deny it felt like coming home. John’s fingers tightened against his knees until his knuckles showed white, then he turned fully toward Bob, breath catching like it hurt to force the words out.

“I love you,” he said, plain as a sunrise. No stammer, no hedging. Just the truth that had sat in his chest for too damn long. Bob’s throat closed up, but John kept going, the words tumbling out rough, desperate, unstoppable. “I love you, Bobby. Always did, even when I was too much of a coward to admit it. And if I still get to have you, it’s gotta be your way. Out in the open, no more secrets, no more hiding. Folks can talk all they want, I don’t give a damn. I’m done losin’ you ‘cause I was too scared to stand up.”

His voice cracked, and his hand moved like it meant to reach for Bob but stopped just short. Hanging there in the space between them.

“If you’ll have me,” John said, quieter now, eyes shining with something sharp and unguarded. “If I ain’t wrecked this beyond fixin’. If you can still find it in yourself to take me back after all the ways I screwed up… I’m yours. Always was. But if I lost that chance for good, I’ll understand. Just…tell me.”

The night hummed loud in the silence that followed, the crickets and wind and far-off coyotes filling the space John’s confession left bare. Bob sat frozen, heart pounding so hard he thought it might shake him apart, staring at the man who’d broken him and was now offering every piece of himself back. The silence stretched, long enough for John’s hand to finally fall back to his thigh, long enough that the stars above seemed to sneer at him for hoping. Bob hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a damn word. Just sat there, shoulders rigid, eyes unreadable. John swallowed, chest heaving with words that refused to stay trapped.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice rough, too loud against the hush of the ridge. “Can’t walk past you in town, can’t see you on horseback or in the feed store and just… pretend. Like we weren’t everything to each other once. Like I don’t still feel it every damn day.”

Bob’s jaw flexed, but still he stayed silent.

John leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, hands clenching like he might tear the night open with them. “And I sure as hell can’t live with this wall you’ve got up between us. Like I’m some stranger you let smile at you, but nothin’ more. It’s killin’ me, Bobby. Every damn second of it.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and for the first time John Walker looked small, like the world had finally taken the fight out of him. Bob’s chest hurt like hell. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t cave easy. He’d told himself he had to stay steady, guarded, because letting John back in meant risking the same heartbreak all over again. But seeing him there, this proud stubborn man laid bare, breaking apart under starlight. Bob felt every resolve shatter.

“Damn you, John Walker,” Bob muttered, voice thick.

Before John could flinch away, Bob’s hand shot up, fisting in the front of his shirt. He dragged him close, erasing the gap, and crushed their mouths together. It wasn’t gentle. It was long, deep, punishing in its hunger. John’s breath caught against him, then he melted into it with a desperate sound, kissing back like he’d been starving for this all along. The stars above blurred as Bob pulled him closer still, as if trying to breathe him in, as if the weeks since the barn had been a lifetime too long. The kiss should’ve stopped there. Should’ve been enough to give John his answer. But neither of them had ever been good at stopping once the fire caught.

John groaned low in his chest as Bob’s mouth opened under his, deepening the kiss until it was near bruising. His hand slid up John’s chest, fingers curling against the hard line of muscle before tugging him closer by the shirt. John didn’t hesitate he pulled right back, one hand cupping the back of Bob’s neck, the other dragging along his waist like he couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or pin him down. They’d kissed like this before, reckless, half-fighting for control. And the second their bodies aligned again, muscle to muscle, heat sparking everywhere they touched, it was like no time had passed.

Bob’s hat, or rather John’s, had slipped back into the truck bed somewhere. Forgotten. John’s sweaty strawberry blond hair mussed as Bob’s fingers tugged hard at the strands. John swallowed the sound Bob made, pressing him back against the ridged metal of the bed until their hips ground together. The friction drew a choked groan out of both of them, the kind that spoke of need buried too long.

“Goddamn,” John gasped against Bob’s mouth, forehead pressed tight to his, voice breaking like he’d just found water in the desert. “Missed you so much it’s been eatin’ me alive.”

Bob didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His breath was ragged, his body trembling with how bad he wanted, how bad he’d always wanted. His hand slid up under John’s shirt, palm dragging across heated skin, relearning every ridge and new scar. John bit down on a curse, catching Bob’s lips again, desperate, sloppy, the kind of kiss that left them both gasping. Neither man pulled away. Each time one tried to catch breath, the other dragged him back in, mouths colliding harder, needier. The summer night wrapped around them, stars wheeling silently overhead, as two men who had once broken each other apart remembered how easy it was to burn when they touched.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” John said, close enough that the words brushed Bob’s mouth. “I mean it.”

Bob swallowed, eyes bright. “I don’t want you to stop,” he answered, voice rough but sure. “Not anymore.”

John's calloused hands roamed over the curves of Bob's body, mapping out the hard planes and ridges of his muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He could feel the heat of Bob's skin, could taste the salt on his lips from the kiss they had been sharing. John's own heart pounded in his chest, a primal rhythm, hammering against his chest. He broke the kiss again, only to trail his lips down the column of Bob's throat, his beard rasping against the sensitive skin. John's fingers found the hem of Bob's shirt and he tugged at it impatiently, wanting to feel more of him. Wanting to see him, all of him, bathed in the silvery moonlight.

"Fuck, you feel so good," John growled, his voice a low rumble in his chest. His hips pressing Bob down further into the truck bed. Thick dick catching against the mirrored strain in Bob’s jeans. More room than they had in the horse stall.

He sat back just enough to yank Bob's shirt up and off, tossing it carelessly to the side of the truck bed. In the moonlight, Bob's torso was a work of art , the muscles of his abdomen clenched, and flexed with each ragged breath he took. John leaned down to run his tongue over one of the small, pink nipples, circling it before sucking it into his mouth. His hands skimmed back down Bob's sides, over the flare of his hips, to palm the firm globes of his ass. Squeezing and kneading, John pulled Bob more firmly against him as he ground their dicks together in a slow, filthy rut. John's own shirt was next to go, and then his belt, new belt buckle clicking against metal as it’s tossed with their shirts.

John's hands shook slightly as he worked open the button fly of Bob's jeans, the metal clasp cold against his fingers. He could feel the heat radiating off of Bob's skin, could see the way his dick strained against the denim, a damp spot darkening the fabric at the apex of his tip underneath. It made John's mouth go dry and his own dick throb in the confines of his jeans. He leaned down to press open-mouthed kisses to the skin of Bob's lower belly, his tongue delving into the hollow of his navel, the line of his nose dragging through the tail of hair there. His fingers pushed the denim down over the curve of Bob's ass, exposing more and more of his skin to the cool night air. The moonlight made the hair on his legs glisten, cast shadows that highlighted the strength of his riding muscles. Slowly, he worked Bob's jeans and underwear down his legs, peeling them off of him until he was bare and splayed out beneath John, his pretty dick curving up towards his belly.

John's own jeans were next, his heavy dick springing free as soon as he shoved them down, waistband caught halfway around his thighs. He wrapped a hand around himself, squeezing his shaft, feeling the way it leaked and throbbed in his grip. The cool air on his heated skin made him hiss through his teeth. He settled between Bob's spread thighs, the coarse hair on his legs brushing against Bob's smooth skin. John's hand wrapped around Bob's dick, stroking him slowly, firmly. His thumb circled the swollen head, smearing the bead of moisture that leaked from the slit. Bob’s hips stuttered as his dick slid between John’s fingers. Messy precum dribbling over them, as Bob whines low and quiet in the back of his throat.

“Fuck I missed your fingers.” They were just as rough as Bob’s own. But not as thick, not as heavy, not as big as when they wrapped around Bob’s dick like this. With clear want and need Bob reaches for John’s wrist, pulling him off of stroking his dick, as Bob guides them up to his mouth. Lips wrapping around John’s thick fingers as he sucks the dirt, sweat, and his own precum off of them.

John let out a low groan as he felt Bob's lips wrap around his fingers, his tongue swirling over the calloused pads. The sensation sent a jolt straight to his dick, making it twitch and leak against Bob's thigh. He could feel the way Bob's throat worked as he sucked, could feel the heat of his mouth, the softness of his tongue. He pulled his fingers from Bob's mouth, only to replace them with his own lips, kissing him deeply, filthily. John's tongue delved into Bob's mouth. His hands roamed over Bob's body, mapping out the dips and curves, the hard planes and ridges of muscle. John's dick throbbed against Bob's belly, leaving a trail of sticky precum in its wake. He rolled his hips, grinding against him, seeking more of that delicious friction.

"Fuck, I missed you," John growled once more against Bob's mouth, his voice a low rumble. "Missed this. Missed touching you, tasting you, fucking you." His fingers wet with Bob’s spit, reach down to beneath where their dicks grind sloppily, to slowly push inside of Bob.

Bob bites down a curse, as John’s first finger pushed inside of his ass, gritting through the burning first push. He can see John hesitate for a moment.

“No, fuck-“ Bob shaking his head as he feels John begin to pull away. “Keep going. I want to feel you.”

John hesitated for only a moment, but at Bob's urging, he pressed forward, sinking his finger deeper into the tight heat of his ass. He could feel Bob's muscles clench and flutter around the intrusion, could feel the way his body resisted at first before slowly yielding.

"Fuck, you're so tight," John grunted, his voice strained. He worked his finger in and out, slowly, letting Bob adjust to the sensation. His thumb rubbed over Bob's hole, circling it, teasing it, before pressing a second finger in alongside the first.

John's other hand slid up Bob's chest, palming his nipple, rolling it between his fingers. He could feel Bob's heart pounding beneath his touch, could feel the way his breath hitched and caught in his throat with each thrust of John's fingers. He leaned down to capture Bob's mouth in another kiss, swallowing his moans and whimpers. John's tongue delved deep, tangling with Bob's own, tasting him, consuming him. His fingers pressed deeper, curling, seeking that spot inside of him that would make his eyes roll back and his toes curl. The sensation of Bob's tight heat clenching around his fingers was driving him crazy, making him ache to be inside of him, to feel his walls gripping his dick like a vice.

"Tell me what you need, baby," John murmured against Bob's lips, three fingers pumping steadily in and out of his ass. "Tell me how you want it. I want to make you feel good."

”I want to feel you inside of me," Bob panted, his voice ragged and desperate. “John... fuck me." His hips rolled up to meet John's thrusting fingers, his body aching for more. “Fuck me like you used to.”

John's breath caught in his throat at Bob's words, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. The desperation in Bob's voice, the way he arched into John's touch, it set a fire burning low in John's gut. He wanted nothing more than to give Bob exactly what he needed, to fuck him until he was a writhing, incoherent mess beneath him. He pulled his fingers from Bob's ass, ignoring his whimper of protest, and reached for his wallet. Fumbling with the leather, he pulled out the condom he kept tucked inside, tearing it open with his teeth.

His dick throbbed in his grip as he rolled the latex over his aching flesh, the chill of lube making him hiss through his teeth. John settled himself between Bob's spread thighs, the head of his dick nudging against Bob's slick, stretched hole. He braced one hand on the truck bed beside Bob's head, the other gripping his hip, his fingers sinking into the firm muscle there. He could feel Bob's heart racing beneath his palm, could feel the heat radiating off of his skin.

"I got you," John promised, his voice a low, dark rumble. "Gonna split you open, fill you deep, I know what you need." He punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, the head of his dick popping past the tight ring of muscle. John's breath was coming fast and hard, his chest heaving with it. He looked down at Bob, taking in the sight of him, naked and spread out beneath him, his dick red and leaking and so fucking hard. It made something primal and possessive surge through John's veins.

"Deep breath, baby," he growled, and then he thrust forward, sinking into Bob's tight heat in one long, steady push until he was buried to the hilt inside of him. Bob’s hands shooting up to claw into John’s shoulder blades. John paused for a moment, letting Bob adjust to the sudden intrusion. He could feel every inch of him, hot and hard and pulsing deep inside of Bob's ass. It was like nothing else mattered in that moment everything else faded away until it was just the two of them, joined so intimately, so completely.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," John breathed, his voice rough and low. His hips rolled slowly, grinding against Bob's, stirring his dick inside of him. He could feel Bob's walls fluttering around him, clenching down, trying to draw him in even deeper.

He leaned down to capture Bob's mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep, tangling with Bob's own. It was filthy and messy and full of need, a silent plea for more, for everything. He started to move then, pulling his hips back until just the tip of his dick remained inside of Bob, before slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt once more. He set a hard, fast pace, the truck bed creaking and shaking beneath them with the force of his thrusts. Nails clawing angry red streaks down John’s back. John's hand slid down Bob's belly, wrapping around his dripping dick. He stroked him in time with his thrusts, his calloused palm rough against the sensitive flesh. He could feel the way Bob's dick throbbed in his grip, could feel the way his hips jerked up to meet his own.

"That's it, baby," John growled, his breath hot against Bob's ear. "Fucking take it. Take my dick like you were made for it." His teeth sank into the side of Bob's neck, marking him, claiming him. He could feel Bob's body starting to tighten, could feel the way his ass clenched down around him like a vice.

"Come on, baby," John urged, his voice a low, filthy rasp. "Come for me. Want to feel you come apart on my dick." His hips never faltered, never slowed, driving into Bob with a single-minded intensity, determined to give him exactly what he needed.

John could feel Bob's body tensing beneath him, his muscles pulling taut as the pleasure built to a peak. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mingling with the creaking of the truck bed and the harsh pants of their breathing. John's hand tightened around Bob's dick, stroking him faster, squeezing him just the way he knew he liked it.

"Fuck, I can feel you," John grunted, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own release. "Feel you getting close, feel you fucking throbbing on my dick." He angled his hips, driving into that spot inside of Bob that made his back arch off the truck bed, his toes curl, his mouth fall open in a silent scream.

"Come on, baby," John growled, his breath ragged and hot against Bob's sweat-slicked skin. "Give it to me. Give me everything. I want to feel you come." His hand pumped Bob's dick harder, faster, the slick sounds of his arousal filling the night air.

“Wait, wait,” Bob lets out a breathless laugh, face flushed, as his hand joined John’s to squeeze the base of his own twitching dick.

“Too much?” A little furrow creased between John’s eyebrows pinched with worry, already dragging his hips back. “Need me to pull out, we can-“

Bob shakes his head and cuts John off. “No, no, feels really fucking good, I just-“ He swallows to catch his breath, “Let me get on top to come, yeah?”

John licks his teeth in a huff of a laugh, before nodding easily, as he lets his dick slip free. Feeling the cool truck bed kiss his sweaty heated back, as Bob straddles his hips, letting John’s hard dick catch between his ass.

“Give me that,” Bob reached a hand out and motioned behind John’s head. Tilting back to look, John sees what Bob was asking for, and reached out to snag the white stetson from where it rolled into the back of the bed.

“Like it that much, huh?” John sat up to put his hat on top of Bob’s curls once more.

“You gonna let me ride you or not?” Bob huffed.

“Keep movin’, sweetheart. Go on.
Use it. Use me." John murmured low and steady, with a rock of his hips.

Bob lifted up on his thighs, lining up John’s thick tip, letting it catch before it slid in easily. The new deeper angle punching the breath out of Bob’s chest. Before Bob can think of moving, John leaned foreword to snag Bob’s lips again in a deep kiss, groaning deep as Bob settled heavily on his lap. Two fingers pressed into John’s chest, has Bob pushing him flat against the bed, as he begins to bounce on John’s dick. His own drooling dick dragging across John’s stomach with each filthy grind of Bob’s hips when he bottoms out. John doesn’t give Bob the satisfaction of all the work, snapping his hips up to meet him in the halfway, as Bob rode his dick. Bob’s face softened with pure ecstasy under the brim of his hat, as John wrapped his hand around him again.

With a final, brutal thrust, John buried himself deep inside of Bob, his dick pulsing and throbbing as he came hard. With a deep growl his hips jerked erratically, spilling spurt after spurt of hot, thick cum into the condom buried inside of Bob's ass. The sensation of John's throbbing release pushed Bob over the edge, his own dick pulsing in John's grip as he came with a hoarse cry of John's name. Streaking cum hot against his chest. They collapsed together, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat and exertion. John's softening dick slipped from Bob's used hole, and he dealt with the condom quickly, tying it off and tossing it carelessly to the side.

"Fuck, that was..." John started, his voice rough and sated. He shook his head, at a loss for words, instead just dragging Bob into a deep kiss.

~

The ridge was hushed around them, stars wheeling slow across the wide black sky. The sweat on their skin had cooled, leaving only the warmth of shared breath and the steady thrum of hearts finding the same rhythm again. Bob sat propped against the side of the truck bed, one knee pulled up, a cigarette glowing faint between his fingers. Smoke curled in loose ribbons above his head, carried off by the breeze. John lay stretched beside him, looking wrecked in the best way hair mussed, lips swollen, chest rising steady.

John turned his head, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Figured you gave those up,” he murmured, nodding at the cigarette.

Bob smirked faintly. “Couldn’t get rid of all my vices and I hoped you still kept a pack of my reds in the glove box.” He drew in slow, exhaled toward the sky. “Guess I wanted to see if you’d still be the same man, keepin’ bad habits in reach just in case.”

John’s lips twitched into a grin. “Maybe I was keepin’ ‘em for you.”

“They’re stale.” Bob huffed, but the smile slipped softer, almost shy. The quiet stretched between them, filled with crickets, far-off coyotes, and for once, it wasn’t heavy.

John shifted closer, voice low but sure. “I meant what I said, Bobby. I’m done hidin’. I want you. All the way. No secrets.”

Bob studied him, smoke ghosting from his lips. For a long moment, John’s words just hung there, bright and dangerous in the night air. But Bob could see it plain in John’s eyes no lies, no shame, no pulling back. And maybe he’d been holding onto the hurt for too long. Maybe he was tired of being guarded, tired of telling himself he didn’t still ache for this man. Bob stubbed the cigarette out on the truck bed rail, flicking the last ember into the dirt. Then he leaned forward, cupped John’s face rough in his palm, and kissed him not angry, not desperate, but deep and certain.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against John’s. His voice came out steady. “You want me? Then you’ve got me. No halfway this time. I don’t run, you don’t push me out. We’re in it, for real. You hear me?”

John’s throat worked as he nodded, eyes burning, a smile breaking through like sunlight. “I hear you. And I swear, Bobby I’m not lettin’ go again.”

Bob let out a long breath, something in him finally unclenching. He dropped onto his back beside John, their shoulders brushing, eyes turned to the endless stars. For the first time in too damn long, it didn’t feel like they were burning themselves alive. It felt like coming home.

“Looks better on you anyway.” John said in the quiet air that had surrounded them, grinning.

Bob chuckled, low and warm, and left it there. His hand found John’s in the dark, fingers tangling easy. And with the whole country spread out below and the night wrapping close around them, Bob finally let himself believe they could start again. The night had settled deep around them, velvet-black and speckled with stars that seemed close enough to touch. Crickets sang in the grass below the ridge, the air warm and sweet with summer. Bob had stretched out on his side in the bed of the truck, head pillowed against John’s shoulder. John’s arm was draped around him, steady and heavy, his thumb drawing slow, absent circles against Bob’s hip.

Neither of them spoke much after that last kiss. They didn’t need to. John had murmured once something quiet, something about home, about never letting go again but his voice had trailed into the hush of the night. Bob hadn’t answered with words. He’d only pressed closer, tucking his face against John’s chest and breathing him in, all sweat and leather and dust. The world beyond the ridge could wait. The barroom whispers, the old wounds, even the weight of the town’s eyes all of it could stay far away, just for tonight.

Bob let out a long sigh, the last of his guard loosening with it. He reached down, found John’s hand, and laced their fingers together tight. John squeezed back without hesitation. The stars burned on above them, endless and quiet. Sleep took them slow, side by side in the truck bed. Two men who’d lost each other and found their way back, lying under the same wide country sky they’d always shared.

And for the first time in a long, long while, the dust finally settled easy.