Wranglin' Wade - 1. Chapter 1

It was Wade's first day at the ranch, and he'd never felt more like a man.

Dust on his boots. Sun on his back. A lasso in his hands and absolutely zero awareness that his life was about to get very gay, very fast.

His boss, a rugged rancher named Hank, watched him from across the corral with eyes that could only be described as "smoldering" and "possibly illegal in several states."

"You ever rope a steer before, boy?" Hank drawled.

Wade swallowed. "No, sir."

"Well," Hank said, stepping closer, his voice dropping an octave, "let me show you how it's done."

He moved behind Wade, his chest pressing against Wade's back, his hands covering Wade's hands on the rope.

"You gotta feel it," Hank said. "The tension. The release."

Wade’s hands trembled beneath Hank’s calloused grip. Not from fear, necessarily, though Hank was built like a man who’d fought a bear and then dated it, but from something else.

Something warm and coiled low in his gut, like a rope left in the sun.

“That’s it,” Hank whispered into his ear. “Feel the rhythm. Don’t rush it.”

Was he still talking about roping?

Wade cleared his throat. “This is, uh… more hands-on than I expected.”

“That’s ranching, son.” Hank’s breath ghosted over his neck like a southern wind full of pheromones and unresolved trauma. “Real intimate work. You’ll get used to it.”

Wade wasn't entirely sure what he expected when he'd left Austin with nothing but a duffel bag and a crisis, but it wasn't this.

This being a six-foot wall of denim and delayed emotional processing teaching him about livestock management while simultaneously dismantling every assumption Wade had ever made about his sexuality.

"You're tensing up," Hank said.

"Sorry, I just—" Wade tried to step forward, but Hank's hands held fast over his.

"Easy now. Cattle can smell fear. And hesitation." Hank's thumb brushed over Wade's knuckles in what was either an instructional gesture or foreplay. Wade had lost all ability to tell the difference. "You gotta commit to the throw, or you'll spook 'em."

Wade nodded like a bobblehead in a earthquake. "Commit. Right. I can do that."

Hank released him and stepped back. The sudden absence of body heat felt like a betrayal. "Alright, let's see what you got."

Wade swung the rope. It flopped to the ground like a depressed garden hose.

"Well," Hank said. "That was…"

"Pathetic?"

"I was gonna say 'a start.'" Hank picked up the rope and handed it back to him, their fingers brushing in a way that absolutely did not need to feel like a full-body experience but somehow did. "Try again. And this time, don't think so hard."

"Don't think," Wade repeated. "Great. That's definitely my strong suit."

Hank's mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. Wade filed this information away in the mental folder labeled Things That Will Keep Me Up Tonight, which was getting concerningly full.

---

By mid-afternoon, Wade had successfully roped the dummy twice, fallen off a fence once, and discovered that manual labor made him feel both incredibly alive and like his body was staging a formal complaint. He collapsed in the shade of the barn, gulping water like a man who'd just crossed a desert.

Hank sat down beside him, way closer than the available shade required. "You did good today."

Wade nearly choked on his water. "I fell into a trough."

"Yeah, but you got back out. That's cowboy grit right there."

"Pretty sure that's just 'not drowning.'"

Hank huffed a laugh and Wade felt his heart doing weird little clumsy cowboy two-steps.

"So what made a city boy like you want to come out here?" Hank asked.

Wade shrugged. “Bad year. Worse choices. Needed a reset button. And time to figure stuff out. Your ad said ‘ranch work, housing provided, no questions asked.’”

Hank nodded. "Ranch is a good place for figuring things out.”

"Yeah?"

"Yep. Nothin' out here but work, sky, and whatever you bring with you." He tilted his head back against the barn. "Can't run from yourself when there's nowhere to hide."

"What about you?" Wade asked, before he could stop himself. "You out here figuring stuff out too?"

Hank met Wade’s gaze. His eyes were the color of desert whiskey and probably twice as flammable. “Every damn day."

They sat in the kind of pause that begged for a punchline, while somewhere in the distance a tumbleweed gave up and rolled into traffic.

Hank stood and dusted off his jeans. "Come on. Gotta teach you how to mend a fence before supper."

Wade groaned. "More manual labor?"

"Son, this is the easy part." Hank offered him a hand up, and when Wade took it, Hank pulled him to his feet with enough force that they ended up chest-to-chest for a breathless second.

"Sorry," Wade stammered.

Hank didn't let go right away. "Don't be."

Then he let go and walked away, while Wade stood there in the dust. His brain pulled up a red flag, but it had glitter on it and said maybe later.

He noticed a spider judging him from the corner of the barn.

“I’m not gay,” Wade said, unsure if he was trying to convince the spider, or himself.

The spider didn't answer.

But it didn't look convinced either.

---

Mending a fence, Wade discovered, was less about the fence and more about Hank finding increasingly creative ways to invade his personal space while maintaining plausible deniability.

"Hold it steady," Hank instructed, positioning Wade's hands on a wooden post while he hammered wire into place. Each strike of the hammer sent vibrations up Wade's arms and made him acutely aware of how Hank's shoulder kept brushing against his.

"Is all ranch work this collaborative?" Wade asked.

"Only when I'm training someone. Gotta make sure you learn it right."

“Right. Real intimate work.”

Hank’s eyes flicked up. “You remember that line, huh?”

“Oh, it’s tattooed on my soul now. Might get it inked on my lower back.”

“You’d be the third.”

That made Wade laugh, the kind that felt like it scraped something loose inside him.

They worked in silence for a while, the late afternoon sun turning everything golden and hazy. Wade's hands were already blistered, his back ached, and he was pretty sure he smelled like a combination of sweat, hay, and whatever cologne horses wore.

But there was something almost meditative about it. The repetitive work, the open sky, the way Hank moved with the kind of easy confidence that came from knowing exactly who you were and where you belonged.

Wade envied that. He'd spent his whole life in Austin feeling like he was playing a part in someone else's story. The marketing job his dad had pushed him toward. The girlfriend he'd dated for two years because that's what you did at twenty-two. The apartment with the subway tile backsplash that had felt more like a stage set than a home.

"You're thinking too loud again," Hank said, pulling Wade back to the present.

"Sorry. Just… adjusting."

"To ranch life?"

"To everything, I guess."

Hank studied him for a long moment, then set down his hammer. "Tell you what. I'm gonna teach you the most important skill on the ranch."

"More important than roping?"

"Way more important."

Wade perked up. "What is it?"

"Knowing when to quit for the day." Hank gestured toward the horizon, where the sun was starting its slow descent. "Come on. I'll show you the property before dark."

They took horses. Hank took a huge chestnut mare named Dolly. Wade took what Hank generously called "the gentle one," a gray gelding named Buttons who had the energy of a middle-aged accountant on a lunch break.

"Buttons?" Wade asked, patting the horse's neck.

"Previous owner's kid named him. Don't hold it against him."

"I would never."

Buttons sighed, apparently used to this conversation.

Riding out across the property, Wade felt something shift in his chest. The land rolled out in every direction. It was the kind of open space that made you realize how small your problems really were.

Or how big.

He hadn't decided yet.

"It's beautiful," Wade said.

Hank was looking at the sunset. "It sure is.”

They rode until they reached a creek. Hank dismounted, and Wade followed, slightly less gracefully.

"This is my favorite spot," Hank said, leading Dolly to the water. "Come out here when I need to think."

"Do you need to think a lot?"

"More than I'd like." Hank pushed his hat back, and Wade noticed the tired lines around his eyes. "Ranching's hard work. Lonely work, sometimes."

Wade sat down on a flat rock near the creek, and Hank joined him, close enough that their shoulders touched. Neither of them moved away.

"Can I ask you something?" Wade ventured.

"Depends on the question."

"Why'd you hire me? I mean, I had zero experience. You could've gotten someone who actually knew what they were doing."

"You really wanna know?"

"Yeah."

"Your application letter." Hank pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. "You wrote 'I don't know anything about ranching, but I'm good at pretending I know what I'm doing, and I'm tired of it. I'd like to try being bad at something real instead.'"

Wade's face went hot. "Oh god. I was drunk when I wrote that."

"I know. I could tell." Hank's voice was soft. "But it was the most honest thing anyone's ever put in a job application. Figured someone willing to be that truthful with a stranger might be worth teaching."

Wade stared at him. Hank stared back. The creek burbled along, blissfully unaware it was witnessing A Moment.

"Hank, I—"

"You hungry?" Hank asked, standing abruptly before folding the letter back into his pocket. "We should head back. I make a mean chili."

The moment passed, but it left something behind. A charge in the air, a question half-asked.

Wade followed him back to the horses, his mind racing and his heart doing complicated things he didn't have words for yet.

This is fine. This is totally normal. People have confusing feelings about their emotionally unavailable bosses all the time. This is a very common experience.

Buttons gave him a look like he didn’t buy it either.

---

Hank's cabin was exactly what Wade expected. Wood-paneled walls, a stone fireplace, furniture that looked like it had survived at least two generations of cowboys, and a startling lack of anything that suggested Hank had hobbies beyond "brooding" and "being competent."

"Make yourself at home," Hank said, heading into the kitchen. "Bathroom's down the hall if you need to wash up."

Wade absolutely needed to wash up.

The bathroom was small and practical. Wade stood under the spray and tried not to think about the fact that Hank had stood in this exact spot, naked, probably this morning.

He failed spectacularly at not thinking about it.

Get it together. You've known this man for approximately eight hours. This is not the time to have a sexuality crisis.

His sexuality crisis disagreed and provided several compelling arguments involving Hank's arms.

When Wade emerged he found Hank in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove. He'd taken off his work shirt and wore a faded gray t-shirt that should have been illegal in how it fit his shoulders.

"Feel better?" Hank asked without turning around.

"Yeah. Thanks." Wade perched on a barstool at the counter, trying to look casual and not like someone who'd just had an extended internal debate about his boss's arms. "So, uh. You live here alone?"

"Yep. Had a few hands over the years, but most don't stay long. It's isolated out here. Not everyone can handle it."

"What about family?"

Hank's shoulders tensed slightly. "Folks passed a few years back. Left me the ranch. Sister lives in Dallas, but we don't talk much."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's just how it is." Hank ladled chili into two bowls and slid one across the counter to Wade. "What about you? Family miss you back in Austin?"

“My dad's probably disappointed I quit the marketing job. Mom's worried I've joined a cult. My sister thinks I'm having a quarter-life crisis."

"Are you?"

"Probably." Wade took a cautious sniff of the chili. “Is this beef?”

Hank sat next to Wade. “Course it’s beef. What else would it be?”

“I dunno. Tempeh?”

“You say ‘tempeh’ like it’s a real thing.”

“It is a real thing. It’s fermented soy.”

“Sounds like city folk witchcraft.”

Wade tried the chili. It was spicy, smoky, and surprisingly great.

Which was annoying. “Okay. This slaps.”

“It what now?”

“It means it’s good.”

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because I’m under 40 and have internet access.”

Hank's mouth quirked. "Secret ingredient."

"What is it?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be secret."

They ate without needing to fill the air with words, and Wade marveled at how easy it was. In Austin, meals had always felt performative. Networking brunches, dinner dates where he'd carefully curated his personality to match whoever he was trying to impress.

Here, eating chili in Hank's kitchen with dirt still under his fingernails, Wade felt more like himself than he had in years.

Even if he wasn't entirely sure who that self was yet.

"Can I ask you something?" Wade said, emboldened by exhaustion and really good chili.

Hank raised an eyebrow. "You're full of questions today."

"Sorry, I—"

"Didn't say I minded. Ask."

Wade set down his spoon. "Earlier, when you said you're out here figuring stuff out every day, what did you mean?”

Hank was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood, carrying his bowl to the sink. Wade thought maybe he'd overstepped again, killed the easy atmosphere with his pathological need to understand things.

Hank didn’t turn around when he finally spoke. "You ever spend your whole life being what everyone expected, and then wake up one day and realize you don't know who the hell you are without all that?"

Wade's breath caught. "Yeah. Actually, yeah."

"That's what I meant." Hank turned, leaning against the counter. "Ranch was my daddy's dream. His daddy's before that. And I'm good at it, I love it, but sometimes I wonder if I stayed because I wanted to or because it was easier than figuring out what else I might want."

"What else do you want?"

Hank's eyes met Wade’s. "Still working that out."

The air between them felt charged again. Wade wanted to close the distance, to say, “me too, I'm working it out too, maybe we could work it out together.”

But his courage only extended so far, and apparently it ended right around "making sustained eye contact."

"I should probably head to the bunkhouse," Wade said, standing. "Early start tomorrow, right?"

"Right." Hank didn't move. "Wade?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're here. I know it's only been a day, but… I'm glad."

Wade's heart performed an entire cheerleading routine. "Me too."

The bunkhouse was a small structure behind the main cabin, with two narrow beds, a wood stove, and a window that looked out toward the stars. Wade collapsed onto one of the beds and stared at the ceiling.

His phone had service, barely. Three missed calls from his sister. A text from his mom asking if he was eating enough vegetables. An email from his former boss marked "urgent" that was probably about the Anderson account and definitely not Wade's problem anymore.

He ignored all of it and opened his notes app instead.

Day One Observations:

- Ranching is hard

- I am bad at ranching

- Hank is… Hank is…

Wade stared at the cursor blinking after Hank's name, trying to find the right words.

Attractive? Obviously.

Kind? Surprisingly, yes.

Emotionally complicated in a way that made Wade want to understand him completely? Absolutely.

Gay? Maybe. Possibly. The evidence was circumstantial but compelling.

Interested in Wade specifically? That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?

Wade deleted the note and opened a different app. A message board he'd been lurking on for months but never posted to. A forum for people figuring out their sexuality later than the world deemed acceptable.

He wasn’t gay, though. Just curious.

There’s a difference.

He typed, “Not gay, but is it normal to move to a ranch and immediately develop feelings for your boss, or am I speedrunning a crisis?”

The responses came quickly.

“Extremely normal. Also extremely gay. Welcome to the club.”

“Cowboy boss? Yeah you're done for. RIP to your heterosexuality.”

“Maybe talk to him? Communication is sexy.”

Wade closed the app and pulled a blanket over his head.

Communication was not sexy.

Communication was terrifying.

Communication required acknowledging that everything he'd assumed about himself for twenty-four years might have been a carefully constructed lie, and that the truth was currently in a cabin fifty yards away.

Outside, a coyote howled. Wade felt the sound in his bones.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow I'll figure it out.

---

The next morning came with the subtlety of a jackhammer.

Wade woke to sunlight filtering through the cracked bunkhouse blinds and a firm, throbbing ache in his everything. Muscles he didn’t know he owned had staged an overnight mutiny. His lower back wrote him a letter of resignation. Even his fingers seemed to pulse in protest, presumably because they’d spent the previous day pretending to know how to fence and lasso like a Discount Cowboy Ken doll.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, winced, and said, “This was a mistake.”.

After splashing cold water on his face and deciding deodorant was more important than dignity, Wade made his way back to the barn. Hank hadn’t appeared yet, either already out on some man-of-the-land errand or maybe, if the universe was especially cruel, waiting to resume the unspoken flirt-a-thon from yesterday like nothing had happened.

The barn smelled of hay, old wood, and something comfortingly animal. Wade stopped halfway in.

The spider was still there. Same corner. Same judging silence.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Wade said.

The spider, of course, said nothing. But if it had leaned back and crossed its hairy little legs, Wade wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Okay,” Wade said, pointing a finger at it. “Let’s just get one thing straight. No, bad word choice. Let me make this clear. I’m here to figure things out. I’ve got questions. Questions about cattle. Questions about chili. Questions about Hank’s arms. That doesn’t make me gay.”

The spider stayed suspended in its web like a tiny gay oracle waiting for more lies.

“I mean, sure, I had a dream last night that was mostly Hank chopping wood and telling me I was ‘a good boy’ but dreams aren’t facts,” Wade snapped.

The spider still didn’t speak.

Wade sighed and sat on an upturned bucket. “Fine. Maybe I’m questioning things. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He leaned forward and dropped his voice conspiratorially. “You think Hank knows? That I’m spiraling? Is it that obvious?”

Wade could’ve sworn he saw the spider shrug.

“I bet he knows. He’s got that rugged cowboy mind-reading thing going on. Can probably smell a sexuality crisis from a hundred yards.”

“Who you talking to, boy?”

Wade nearly fell off the bucket.

Hank stood in the barn doorway, hands on his hips, wearing a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.

“Not talking,” Wade said, recovering. “Monologuing. To the spider.”

Hank walked over and tilted his head up toward the rafters. “Well, damn. There he is. Weaver.”

“Weaver?”

“Been living here longer than I have.” Hank gave the spider a respectful nod. “Good listener, that one.”

Wade blinked. “You named the spider Weaver.”

Hank’s mouth twitched. “What, you didn’t?”

“I have no comeback for that.”

Hank handed him a thermos. “Coffee?”

Wade took it, his fingers brushing Hank’s again. He pretended it didn’t feel like an electric shock directly to the soul. “Thanks.”

“We’ll head out to the south pasture after breakfast. Gotta check the fencing out that way. Might be wild hogs rooting around.”

“Wild hogs?” Wade echoed. “That a euphemism or…?”

“Nope,” Hank said. “Literal hogs. Dangerous bastards. Fast, mean, ugly. Kinda like my high school principal.”

Wade laughed and Hank watched him in a way that looked dangerously close to fondness.

Before they left, Wade looked back up at Weaver, who, against all odds, seemed to radiate smugness.

“Don’t even say it,” Wade said to the spider.

Weaver, naturally, said nothing.

---

The wind had picked up by the time they reached the south pasture. It wasn’t dramatic yet, just enough to lift the smell of dust and storm from the horizon, enough to make the horses flick their ears uneasily. Wade squinted at the clouds gathering like a barfight in slow motion.

Hank was already down by the fence line, inspecting the stretch they’d reinforced the day before. “Looks solid,” he called. “Which means if the cows are missing again, they found another damn hole.”

As if summoned by narrative timing, a low moo echoed across the fields.

Hank turned abruptly. “Shit.”

From the rise, Wade spotted three cattle trotting down the slope toward the gully where the terrain turned rocky and uneven. Beyond that, the creek ran high from last week’s rain.

“Looks like they busted the gate by the windbreak,” Hank said, swinging into Dolly’s saddle with a speed that made Wade jealous.

“I’ll get Buttons,” Wade called, already hurrying toward his horse.

They galloped.

Well, Hank galloped.

Wade’s version of galloping was more like aggressive bouncing, but Buttons seemed to have accepted his fate and gamely kept pace.

Hank was already lassoing the first steer with an ease that bordered on indecent. The rope sailed through the air in a perfect arc, caught the animal’s horns, and cinched tight like a goddamn cowboy commercial.

“Next one!” Hank shouted, urging Dolly to the right.

The second cow veered off. Hank followed, his posture low and graceful as ever.

Wade spotted the third bolting straight toward the far end of the pasture, where the ground fell away into a shallow dip. If the steer got spooked and misjudged its footing, it could easily break a leg. Or worse.

“I got it!” Wade shouted before he could think better of it.

He turned Buttons and followed.

Buttons, bless his equine heart, took off after the steer like a very polite missile. Wade bounced in the saddle, fumbling for the lasso on his belt.

“You got this,” he said to himself. “Remember what Hank said. Rhythm. Tension. Commitment. And absolutely do not panic.”

He panicked.

The first throw went wide, flopping to the ground in a limp arc that the steer didn’t even notice. Wade cursed, coiled the rope again, and tried once more.

This time, the rope caught.

He whooped and leaned back in the saddle like he’d just won the Gay Rodeo Finals. “Hell yeah! I did it! I—”

The cow kept running.

Buttons braked. Wade didn’t.

There was a brief moment of airborne suspension, during which Wade had time to reflect on the choices that led him here. Mostly the one where he tried to impress his Ranch Daddy boss with a cowboy maneuver he had practiced exactly once.

Then gravity claimed its prize.

He hit the ground with a thud, rolled, and groaned. Pain flared in his ankle, drawing a hiss through his teeth.

He sat up slowly, clutching his leg. The steer had stopped, more confused than restrained, chewing some grass like none of this was particularly urgent.

Hoofbeats thundered up behind him.

“Wade!” Hank’s voice cracked through the wind like a whip. He swung down from Dolly before she even stopped moving and dropped to Wade’s side. “Jesus, you alright?”

“Define ‘alright,’” Wade winced.

Hank’s eyes scanned him quickly. “You break anything?”

“Only my pride. Ankle’s not great, though. Pretty sure it twisted under me.”

“Can you move it?”

Wade tried and grimaced. “Technically, yes. Painfully, also yes.”

“That’s a sprain. Let’s get you back to the house. Here—”

He knelt, one hand behind Wade’s back, the other under his knees.

“Wait,” Wade said. “You’re not gonna—”

“I am,” Hank said firmly, already lifting him.

“Hank!” Wade yelped, his arms flying up instinctively as he was hoisted against Hank’s chest like a damsel in a prairie romance paperback. “This is entirely too cinematic!”

“Shut up,” Hank said, carrying him toward Buttons. “You’re bleeding sarcasm. That means you’re fine.”

He boosted Wade onto the saddle.

Wade blinked. “Okay. Wow. You weren't kidding about ‘real intimate work.’”

Hank gazed up at him. “Just try not to fall off again, cowboy,” he said, then he turned and stepped toward Dolly, mounting her like a cowboy Fabio.

Wade nodded and whispered, “too late for that. I'm definitely falling. Hard.”

Buttons carried Wade back at a careful trot, as if the horse had developed a sudden and newfound respect for the idiot on his back. Wade gritted his teeth and focused on staying upright, every jostle radiating a fresh pulse of pain through his ankle. The clouds above them were gathering fast now, heavy and mean with rain.

Hank rode just ahead, his silhouette framed by the darkening sky. His shirt clung damply to his back, and every muscle in his arms flexed as he guided Dolly easily. Wade hated how that made his situation worse.

Like, medically worse. Increased heart rate. Shortness of breath. Delusions of competence.

They reached the barn just as the first drops of rain slapped against the metal roof. Hank dismounted and came to Wade's side, holding Buttons’ reins with one hand and offering the other up to Wade.

Wade looked at it skeptically. “You’re not gonna cradle me again, are you?”

“Not unless you ask nice.”

Wade snorted and slid down with a hiss, trying to land on one leg. Hank caught him with perfect timing, one arm going around his waist.

“Stop squirming,” Hank said. “I’ve had calves fight me less.”

“Well maybe the calves aren’t experiencing a full-body identity crisis while also trying not to cry from embarrassment.”

Hank guided him into the barn’s side door. The interior was dim, warm, and full of the smell of hay, horses, and the faint scent of pine soap. Hank’s, specifically. Wade was becoming far too familiar with it.

“Sit,” Hank ordered, nodding to a bench near the wall.

Wade sat. Hank grabbed a first-aid kit and returned, crouching to examine the swelling ankle. His fingers were efficient, but also oddly gentle.

“You’re lucky,” Hank said. “Could’ve done real damage if you’d landed wrong.”

“Oh good. A sprain and a lecture. This really is the cowboy fantasy.”

Hank didn’t look up. “You did alright.”

“I fell off the horse.”

“Still caught the steer.”

“Then immediately got yeeted into the dirt.”

Hank glanced up. “No cowboy gets it perfect their first time. Hell, I’ve been roping twenty years and still eat dirt some days.”

Wade stared at him. “You ever say anything that isn’t weirdly comforting and hot?”

Hank froze and Wade immediately wanted to lasso the words mid-air, shove them back down his throat, and ride off into the sunset of mortification.

But Hank didn’t retreat. He didn’t look shocked. He just breathed out through his nose and tied off the bandage.

“I’m gonna put the horses away,” Hank said, standing. “Then I’ll help you inside and get some ice on that ankle. Keep it elevated.”

He disappeared down the aisle toward the stalls, the sound of hooves and low murmurs fading into the rain. Wade stared at his wrapped ankle like it held the answers to his life, sexuality, and mortgage rate combined.

Weaver the spider, once again nestled in the upper corner of the barn, was watching.

“You saw that, huh?” Wade said.

Weaver didn’t reply, but Wade could feel the smug aura like a weighted blanket made of webs and truth.

“Shut up,” he said, louder this time. He leaned back against the wall and exhaled slowly, half from pain, half from whatever emotional rodeo he'd been riding since Hank first touched his hands that morning.

Or maybe yesterday morning.

Time had started operating on Hank Standard Time, which seemed to be measured in meaningful silences and proximity-induced heart attacks.

A few minutes later, Hank returned, the rain misting off his shoulders and leaving dark spots on his shirt. He looked like the cover of a romance novel that had been banned in Texas.

Wade half expected him to say something gruff and dismissive, but instead Hank simply offered his arm, and said, “Ready?”

Wade looked up. "Do I have a choice?"

"Sure. You can either hop your way there on one foot like a busted-up jackrabbit, or you can lean on me and pretend it’s not the highlight of your year."

Wade narrowed his eyes. "You assume a lot."

Hank gave him a once-over that was way too casual to be safe. "You talk a lot."

Wade opened his mouth to speak, then paused. "Fair."

He stood on one foot and leaned into Hank. The first step sent a jolt up his leg, and he hissed.

“Easy,” Hank said. “I’ve got you.”

Wade wasn’t entirely sure whether he meant physically or emotionally, and he wasn’t entirely sure which made his heart do the weird gymnastics routine. Hank helped him out into the rain, one arm around his waist like they were doing the slowest, gayest two-step ever choreographed across gravel.

Inside the cabin, Hank guided Wade to the couch and lowered him down like precious cargo. Wade sank into the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “If I die, tell Weaver he was right."

“You’re not dying,” Hank said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“Are you saying this is normal? You nursing city boys back to health every other week?”

“Only the ones who talk to spiders,” Hank said from the kichten.

“Weaver and I have a complicated relationship.”

“Looks more like he’s your therapist.”

“He’s licensed in six states. One of them metaphorical.”

Hank reappeared at that moment, letting out a low, amused breath and carrying an ice pack wrapped in a clean dish towel. He leaned down and gently adjusted the pillow beneath Wade’s foot, then set the ice pack against his ankle with the same careful tenderness.

Wade cleared his throat. “So… are we just gonna pretend I didn’t say what I said earlier? In the barn?”

Hank was quiet for a long second. Then he stood to his full height and met Wade’s eyes. “You want me to pretend?”

Wade’s stomach flipped like a busted lawn chair. “No. I mean. Maybe. I don’t know.”

Hank nodded slowly, then he turned and crossed the room. For a second, Wade thought he was walking away. Instead, Hank grabbed a chair and pulled it in front of the couch and sat down.

“Let me ask you something,” Hank said. “You flirt like that with every man who teaches you how to rope cattle?”

Wade blinked. “I… what?”

“Because either you’re real generous with the compliments,” Hank said. "Or you’ve got a particular interest in me being comforting. And hot.”

“I, uh, didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice everything. Especially when a guy’s looking at me like I’m the only saloon left open after midnight.”

Wade swallowed. “And how exactly are you looking at me?”

Hank’s lips curled slightly. “Like I’ve been out here a long time, and someone finally showed up worth the wait.”

Wade’s chest went tight. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” Hank leaned back. “Look. I wasn’t planning on anything. You’re new, you’re figuring yourself out, and I wasn’t about to complicate that.”

“But?”

“But then you asked if I ever say anything that isn’t comforting and hot. And I realized I didn’t want to lie to you.”

Wade stared at him. “So you’re saying I’m not imagining this?”

“Nope.”

“And you’re—?”

“I’m not straight, if that’s what you’re asking,” Hank said. “But I keep it quiet. Ranch life’s got ears, and I’ve never had much reason to make noise about it.”

Wade let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “This is a lot.”

“I know.”

“But good a lot.”

Hank smiled. It was small, but it was real. “Yeah. I think so.”

Wade glanced at his foot, then back at Hank. “So what now? You carry me across another threshold and we ride off into a metaphor?”

Hank chuckled. “Now you sit still and don’t make it worse.”

Wade smiled. “That’s comforting. And hot.”

“Careful,” Hank warned. “I might start thinking you like me.”

Wade looked at him, took a slow, deep breath of self-acceptance, and said, “I think I do.”

Hank reached out and brushed Wade’s knee in a way that was comforting. And hot.

They sat like that for a while, not rushing. Just two cowboys in a cabin, a sprained ankle, and the quiet admission that something real had started between them.

And from his perch in the barn, Weaver gave no judgment at all.

But he was definitely spinning a web that said, “Called it.”