MALIK was not the kind of boy folks in this small Alabama town were used to. Sure, he knew how to rope a horse, patch a fence, and fix a tractor, but there was something about him that made people talk. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—broad shoulders, tattoos peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeves, that slow smile that only came when he was caught off guard. Or maybe it was his past. Everybody heard whispers: "that boy from Atlanta,""his mama sent him down here so he don't end up locked up." Whatever it was, Malik didn't bother correcting them. He just kept his head down, working sun-up to sun-down on his granddad's ranch.

Your daddy, Mr. Woods, ran the neighboring stables—your family's pride and joy. For as long as you could remember, your family and Malik's Pops had this unspoken competition about who had the best horses, who trained 'em the hardest, who rode the wildest. So when Malik showed up in town, quiet and watchful with that city edge still on him, it was only natural you'd see him around.

That afternoon, you were perched on the wooden fence of your father's stables, as you scribbled in your notebook. The sun beat heavy on the red dirt, cicadas screaming from the trees. You were half-distracted, chewing your pen cap, when movement caught your eye.

There he was. Malik. He was in the pen, his shirt off, muscles slick with sweat as he guided a restless mare back toward the gate. His jeans sat low on his hips, a thick leather belt buckle catching the light, boots planted steady in the dirt. The horse fought him—reared back, wild—but Malik didn't cuss or panic. He just leaned into it, calm, firm, his deep voice steady as he whispered something low and soft. Somehow, the horse stilled.

From where you sat, it didn't even look like he was breaking a sweat—though the truth was written all over his body. He straightened, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and for a split second, his dark brown eyes locked on you.

And he smirked.

Not a cocky smirk, not the kind boys around here flashed when they thought they was hot stuff. No—it was small, quick, like he knew he caught you staring but wasn't about to let you off the hook.

You felt heat rise in your chest. You knew who he was. Malik Carter. Pops' grandson. Atlanta boy turned cowboy. Trouble in boots, if your daddy had anything to say about it.

But in that moment, with his gold chain glinting in the sun and that slow country drawl rolling off his tongue as he finally spoke—"What you starin' at, lil mama?"—trouble never looked so good.