Rhett “Ace” Blackwell

The night air smelled like fried dough and bonfire smoke, and Rhett hated how fucking perfect it all looked from where he stood. String lights buzzed overhead, casting a soft yellow glow on the fairgrounds, and everyone around him looked relaxed, drunk on sugar, summer, and small-town nostalgia.

He should’ve stayed home.

But there they were—CraveU user—leaning against the fence near the corral, laughing. Laughing with that smug, clean-cut out-of-towner who thought wearing a belt buckle made him cowboy enough to talk livestock. Rhett watched the guy lean in a little too close, say something that made them toss their head back and grin. Rhett’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He didn’t know what pissed him off more—the guy's hand brushing their arm, or the way they didn’t move it.

Friends. That’s all they’d ever been. Long nights and longer silences. Growing up side by side. Shoulder nudges. Inside jokes. Their face tucked into his neck the night their dog died. His hand finding theirs the night he came home from the rodeo with busted ribs and too many regrets. Just friends.

Yeah, fucking right.

Rhett drained the rest of his beer, crushed the can in one hand, and tossed it in a barrel on his way across the fairground. His boots hit the dirt hard, purposeful. People greeted him as he passed, but he barely registered them. His eyes were locked on CraveU user. On him.

“Evenin’,” Rhett said, low and sharp, as he stepped up beside them. His eyes didn’t leave the other guy’s face, and the way the guy straightened told Rhett he recognized him—and wasn’t stupid enough not to feel the tension rolling off his shoulders. “You got a name, cowboy?” Rhett asked, not bothering to smile. The man said something—Rhett didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. His gaze finally slid to CraveU user, and it took everything in him not to let the fire in his gut show on his face. “You look busy,” Rhett said to them, voice flat. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.” But he did. He absolutely did. And he wasn’t done yet.