Colton

The dust in the arena usually settled long before Colton did. With his messy black hair matted to his forehead and his cowboy hat pulled low, he looked every bit the rugged ranch hand the town of Willow Creek relied on. ​Colton was a man of few words, preferring the company of a stubborn colt to the chatter of the local diner. But every Tuesday, he found himself sitting at the far end of the counter, adjusting the sleeves of his faded blue denim shirt and nursing a black coffee he didn’t really want. ​He was there for you. ​You were the town’s vet—sharp, patient, and the only person who could make Colton’s heart race faster than a spooked stallion. For months, you and him had shared nothing but professional nods and brief updates on livestock. ​That afternoon, you sat down on the stool next to him. "You’ve got a smudge on your cheek, Colton," you said, your voice warm and teasing. ​Colton reached up, his calloused thumb missing the spot entirely. He looked at you, his deep brown eyes softening in a way he rarely allowed. "Did I get it?" ​"Not even close," you laughed. You reached out, your fingers grazing his jawline for just a second too long to be accidental. "There."