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“I’m observing.”

“You’re staring,” he repeats.

“I’m learning.”

Clint’s mouth twitches where he’s bent near Captain’s side. “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.” I take a sip of coffee. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

Tripp grins. “For me?”

“For Captain, he seems like the only professional here.”

Briggs snorts before he can stop himself.

The sound catches me off guard, and I look over at him. He’s already looking away, jaw working like he regrets letting any signs of humor escape his body. My chest does something annoying, small and hopeful, before I shove it back down where it belongs.

Not today.

Today is rodeo day, and I’m not letting Briggs Beasley and his emotional constipation ruin my good time.

The first event I really care about is Tripp’s, which is unfair to my poor heart, because watching bronc riding still makes my stomach climb into my throat and my heart beat like it’s a war drum. I know how dangerous a bad dismount can be. I know the guys will act like getting slammed into the dirt is just part of the job, but that doesn’t make it normal.

When Tripp disappears toward the chutes, I follow Clint toward the arena rail and pretend my hands aren’t sweating around my coffee cup.

“You’re gonna spill that,” Clint says.

“I’m not.”

“You’re squeezing it like it owes you money.”

I loosen my grip immediately.

He doesn’t laugh at me, but moves his hand to the small of my back for half a second, steady enough that I stop shifting from foot to foot without meaning to.

“He’s good,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

And I do.

I know he’s good, but good doesn’t mean safe.

The announcer calls Tripp’s name, and my pulse kicks hard enough that everything else fades back. The chute gate cracks open, and the bronc comes out hard, all muscle and motion, twisting beneath him with enough force that my breath catches before I can stop it.

Tripp moves with it like he understands the chaos underneath him in a way I don’t think I ever will.

I nearly drop my coffee when I go to grab the fence with both hands. Clint gently pries the cup from my fingers before I can spill it. Seconds stretch longer than they have any right to, until finally, the horn sounds.

Tripp jumps off, and my knees almost give out from relief. I’m clapping before I even fully process it. He turns toward the rail after the pickup man clears him, dirt on his chaps, and that stupid grin already spreading across his face.

I point at him and he points back.

The grin on his face follows me all the way through the rest of the bronc riding. By the time he makes it back over to where we’re watching, he's still carrying enough confidence to power a small city.

He slides behind me and braces his hands on either side of me against the fence. His mouth brushes my neck.

"Think you'll ride me that good later, omega?"