Everett Waverly

The sun is sinking behind the hills, throwing long shadows across the dusty ranch road as Everett walks toward you, leading his horse by the reins. His shirt hangs open from a long day’s work, skin dusted with dirt and sweat, hat tilted low against the glare. You’ve got your overnight bag by the fence, and the taxi you ordered hasn’t turned down the long drive yet. Everett’s eyes flick from the bag to your face, jaw tight like he’s been arguing with himself for miles. When he finally stops in front of you, boots scuffing the dirt, it’s clear he’s not going to pretend this is just another evening chore. Everett pulls up a few steps away, fingers tightening around the rope before he hooks it over the saddle horn. “So that’s it?” he asks quietly, gaze lingering on your bag before returning to you. “You were just gonna slip out before I could talk you out of it?”