Satoru Gojo || Cowboy

The late afternoon sun dipped low over the Georgia pines, painting the sprawling pastures of the Six Eyes Ranch in a dusty, bruised gold. Satoru Gojo sat on the tailgate of his scarred Ford F-150, boots hooked over the bumper, unbuttoning the cuffs of his denim shirt to roll them up his forearms. He’d spent the last four hours wrangling a stubborn herd of Black Angus cattle through a broken fence line, and his silver-white hair was a messy, windblown halo under the brim of his Stetson.

Beside him, Suguru Geto was casually nursing a cold longneck beer, leaning against the truck bed while Shoko Ieiri sat on an upturned milk crate, already lighting up a cigarette after a brutal day in the veterinary pens.

“I'm just saying, the quiet's about to dry up around here,” Suguru murmured, taking a slow sip. He wiped a streak of red dirt from his forehead with the back of his hand, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Old man Yaga leased out the cottage down by the creek. Signed the papers yesterday.”

Satoru swung his legs, a lazy, white-toothed grin cutting across his sun-tanned face. He pulled off his dark aviator sunglasses, letting them hang from his collar to expose those startling, piercing blue eyes. “Yaga finally found someone crazy enough to take that place? What's the verdict? Some retired couple looking to plant tomatoes?”

“Not quite,” Shoko exhaled, blowing a plume of smoke into the humid evening air. She looked up, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “A city girl. Straight out of New York. Packed up a U-Haul with nothing but designer luggage, a couple of house plants, and shoes that don't belong within ten miles of a dirt road. Saw her unloading this morning. Looked like a stray kitten dropped in a wolf pen.”

Satoru froze, his boots coming to a sudden halt against the bumper. The grin on his face morphed into something entirely predatory, his interest instantly piqued. A city girl. In their tiny, forgotten corner of the South, where the closest Walmart was a thirty-minute drive and the reception bars dropped to zero the second you crossed the county line.

“New York, huh?” Satoru rumbles, his deep voice thick with a smooth, molasses-slow Southern drawl. He tilted his hat back, running a calloused hand through his white hair. “Well, damn. That’s a long way from home. Out here all by herself?”

“Looks like it,” Suguru chuckled, shaking his head at the immediate, dangerous spark in his friend's eyes. “Don't go terrorizing the poor girl, Satoru. She probably thinks milk comes from a grocery store carton and has never smelled fresh manure in her life. Let her unpack in peace.”

“Terrorizing? Me?” Satoru gasped, placing a heavy, work-roughened hand over his chest in mock offense. He slid off the tailgate, his towering 190 cm frame instantly dominating the space. He popped his back, a dark, wicked glint settling into his blue eyes as he looked down the long, dusty road that led toward the creek cottage. “I am a pillar of the community, Suguru. A Southern gentleman. It would be downright unchristian of me not to offer a proper, warm welcome to our new neighbor.”

“He's already planning it,” Shoko muttered to Suguru, shaking his head. “God help her.”

Satoru didn't even wait to wash the dust off his jeans. He grabbed a fresh six-pack of cider from the cooler in the truck bed, slung it over his arm, and cracked his knuckles. He could picture it already—some polished, pristine little thing completely out of her element, jumping at the sound of cicadas and struggling with a sticky front door latch.

He climbed into the driver's seat of his truck, the engine roaring to life with a heavy, mechanical rumble that kicked up a cloud of red dust.

“Where are you going? You're covered in sweat and dirt, Gojo!” Suguru called out.

Satoru just leaned his elbow out the open window, tipping his hat to them with a slow, devastating smirk. “Going to make sure she knows exactly what kind of country she walked into.”

---

The drive down to the creek cottage was short, the gravel crunching loudly under his heavy tires. As he pulled up the overgrown driveway, he spotted the newcomer standing on the porch, looking thoroughly exhausted, a smudge of soot on a flushed, tired cheek from trying to check the old fireplace chimney. The clothes being worn practically shouted 'Manhattan'—entirely too clean, entirely too fashionable, and completely impractical for the thick Georgia humidity that was already making hair frizz.

Satoru cut the engine. He took his time getting out, letting the heavy thud of his cowboy boots against the dirt announce his arrival. He was massive, his broad shoulders easily filling out the doorway of his cab, his tight denim jeans showing off the rugged, athletic build of a man who worked the land for a living.

He walked up to the porch steps, stopping at the bottom, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops as he looked up. He let his gaze slowly wander over the form, from the pristine shoes up to the flushed, tired face, his blue eyes bright with an overwhelming, alpha arrogance.

“Well, now,” Satoru drawled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to cut right through the evening hum of the crickets. He tilted his Stetson up, exposing those unnervingly beautiful eyes completely, a slow, cocky smirk spreading across his lips. “Shoko wasn't lying. You really are a little lost city bird, aren't you?”

There was a blink of surprise, caught entirely off guard by the sheer size and confidence of the man standing in the yard.

Satoru took a step up the porch, deliberately invading the space, the faint scent of leather, cedarwood, and honest sweat rolling off him. He held up the six-pack, the bottles clinking softly.

“Name's Satoru Gojo,” he murmured, his drawl turning thick and sweet, dripping with a terrifyingly charming dominance. He leaned down slightly, bringing himself eye-level, his smirk widening as he watched a sudden, nervous breath hitch. “Welcome to the middle of nowhere, darlin'. Figured you looked like you needed a drink... and someone to teach you how to survive out here.”