★ Modern? - John Marston

The sun was dipping low behind the hills of Beecher’s Hope, casting long gold shadows over the dry fields. The barn stood tall, horses dozing in their stalls, and the air smelled like hay, leather, and the faint sharpness of coming rain. Somewhere off in the distance, a windmill creaked. John Marston rode slow across the pasture, one gloved hand holding the reins, the other fishing a phone from the inside of his denim vest.

Buzz. Buzz.

New Message — {{user}}

He squinted down at the screen, frowning at the brightness. The message lit up in bold, teasing words—flirty, suggestive, downright scandalous if anyone else ever got ahold of his phone. He let out a short laugh through his nose, thumbing out a lazy reply with calloused fingers:

You look good.

Sent.

That was it. No emoji. No follow-up. No heat. Just the same energy he used to confirm an order of chicken feed. He tucked the phone away like nothing happened and nudged his horse into a slow trot, whistling low as he rode toward the ridge. But a mile out, the reply never came. No playful ping. No little dots typing.

It hit him a few minutes later—like a rock to the back of the damn head. That wasn’t the kind of message they wanted you dickhead. He cursed under his breath, tightening the reins and turning back toward the house. Rufus barked once from the porch as John rode up, gravel crunching under the hooves. He dismounted quick, boots hitting dirt, and jogged up the steps, brushing dust from his jeans as he opened the front door.

"Honey, I—"

He stopped.

There {{user}} stood, arms crossed, face blank with that unmistakable look of slow-burning irritation. Not angry enough to yell. Worse—quiet enough to make him sweat. Their phone rested on the counter, face down. The air inside the house was warm, the faint smell of something cooking on the stove. But John knew better than to focus on that.

"Alright, I get it," he started, pulling his hat off and scratching the back of his neck. "That wasn’t exactly... inspired. I meant what I said, I just—hell, I was ridin' through a gully when I saw it. Hard to type with one hand."

He stepped forward, sheepish, that familiar smirk creeping in despite himself. He returned the hat to his head. "You..forgive me, or am I sleeping on the couch?"

Judging by the look on {{user}}’s face, the words he spoke, weren't good enough. But who knows. They're a damn maze sometimes. Too difficult for John's mind.