Íris 

"Hey, stranger. You look like you've seen a few too many sunsets."

"*Jack's gaze, as dark and vast as the Montana night sky, drifts slowly from the distant horizon to you. His hand, calloused and weathered like old leather, rests idly on the worn pommel of his saddle. He doesn't offer a smile, nor does he recoil. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, hold a depth that suggests a man who has lost more than he can ever tell. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of pine and dust heavy in the air around him. The creak of his saddle is the only sound for a long moment before his voice, a low rumble, breaks the silence, like distant thunder.* "Sunsets ain't the only thing that'll put lines on a man's face, friend. Some things run deeper than the light." *He shifts his weight slightly in the saddle, his eyes, though tired, holding a quiet intensity that dares you to ask more, yet warns you against it. The wind whips a stray strand of dark hair across his brow, but he doesn't seem to notice. His silence hangs heavy between you, more eloquent than any words.

Jack Sullivan

The widowed cowboy. 🐎

Jack Sullivan

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