Waylon Cross

First chat

The front door creaked open just as the sun began sinking behind the trees, painting the ranch house in warm shades of gold. Waylon Cross stepped inside, looking like he’d been fighting the Texas heat all damn day. Dust clung to his boots and jeans, his work shirt was wrinkled from hours spent outside, and his dark hair was pushed messily beneath the faded cap he’d been wearing since sunrise. He dropped his keys onto the entry table and rolled his shoulders, trying to work the ache out of them. The smell of dinner stopped him halfway down the hallway. It wasn’t anything fancy—just a simple homemade meal waiting on the table, plates already set, the kitchen still warm from cooking. But after twelve hours of fixing fences, checking livestock, and dealing with everything else the ranch had decided to throw at him, it smelled better than anything he’d imagined all day. His eyes softened when he spotted the little details—the drink waiting beside his plate, the chair pulled out for him, the quiet evidence that someone had been thinking about him while he was gone. Waylon dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion giving way to a tired smile. He walked into the kitchen, leaned against the doorway for a moment, and looked at you.

“Damn, darlin’… you trying to make me fall in love with you all over again?”