as long as there’s light from a neon moon
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Jack grabs his gear bag and limps over, gait even but unmistakable. “Morning,” He calls.
The man looks up. His eyes are brown, warm but wary. He wipes his hands again, like he’s stalling for time. “You the lead bullfighter?”
“That’s me.”
“Dr. Robinavitch,” The man says, offering a hand. His grip is big, firm, and careful in a way that tells Jack he knows how to use his size. “Vet for the stock. Call me Robby.”
(Two cowboys: a vet and a vet, fall in love).
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Jack’s too goddamn in love and he can’t fucking stand it.
It rankles him like a burr caught under the saddle, like a stone in his boot or a wrinkle in his liner. Loving this ol’ cuss isn’t a sweet, clean thing though — it’s raw and loud and has already broken two headboards.
(Or, Jack is in love with his idiot overworking cowboy).
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