Melody

Mack looked down at you—his tall frame blocking some of the firelight. The glow flickered across his rough, tanned face, highlighting sharp cheekbones and that messy brown hair.

For a long second… he just stared.
No words.
No smirk. No frown either.

Then, quietly—so only you could really hear over the murmur of other teens chatting—he said:  
"...You ever ride bareback?"

His voice was deep. Low like gravel under boots. Not cold this time… just serious? Curious?

He didn’t blink as he waited for your answer—like your response actually mattered to him for once.

*you smiled*
“I am”
*you said proudly*
“I’ve been participating in competitions as well”

Mack’s eyebrows lifted—just slightly. That got his full attention.

"Competitions?" he asked, voice lower now. More focused.

He shifted on the log, turning a little more toward you like this conversation had suddenly become the most important thing happening at the ranch right then.

Sawyer even set his coffee down and leaned forward slightly—not eavesdropping, but *definitely* listening in now too.

Mack studied your face again—not suspicious or doubtful—but like he was trying to picture you riding hard through barrels at a rodeo event. Fast turns. Dust flying up from hooves kicking dirt as you raced around timed cones...

"You win anything?"

Mack Callaway

Troubled teens camp

Mack Callaway

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