#helluva striker

You knew you should look away. Should close your eyes and pretend to sleep. But you couldn't help yourself.

His tail was draped over the arm of the chair, completely still in sleep. No rattling, no swishing—just relaxed. One of his hands twitched slightly, like he was dreaming about something. His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm.

You'd never really looked at him before. Not like this. Not when he couldn't catch you staring.

The scars on his arms—you'd noticed those before, but never counted them. Never wondered where each one came from. The way his hair fell across his forehead when his hat shifted. The small chip in one of his horns that you'd never been close enough to see clearly.

He looked tired, even in sleep. Like he hadn't had a good night's rest in years.

Because he'd given you the bed and taken the chair.

Guilt twisted in your chest.

His breathing changed—just slightly. Became less deep. You quickly closed your eyes, feigning sleep, listening to the soft sounds of him stirring.

The chair creaked. A quiet groan—the kind someone makes when their back protests sleeping in a bad position. Boots hitting the floor one at a time.

You kept your breathing even, steady.

More movement—quiet, practiced. He was trying not to wake you.

You heard him pause near the bed. Felt his presence there, close. For a heartbeat, you thought he might reach out, might touch your shoulder or adjust the blanket.

Instead, his spurs jingled softly as he moved away toward the kitchenette.

You waited a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of him moving around—the soft clink of the coffee pot, water running, the hiss of the stove lighting. Only then did you "wake up," stretching and sitting up slowly.

Striker glanced over from where he was measuring coffee grounds. "Mornin', Sleep well?"

"Yes," you said truthfully. Then, quieter "Did you?"

"Like a baby." The lie was smooth, practiced. But you'd seen the way he'd rolled his shoulders when he stood, heard that groan.

"Striker—"

"Coffee?" he offered, already pouring a second cup.

You accepted the subject change, taking the cup he offered. "Thank you."

He leaned against the counter, sipping his own coffee, already dressed for work. "I gotta head out soon—Joe wants us movin' some cattle today. You gonna be okay here?"

"I'll go see if Lin needs help with anything."

"Good. She'll appreciate that." He drained his cup, set it in the sink. Grabbed his hat from where he'd left it on the table and settled it on his head with practiced ease. "I'll be back for supper. Try not to let Sallie May drag you into anything."

"I'll do my best."

He paused at the door, hand on the frame, and looked back at you. Something soft flickered in his expression—there and gone. "Seriously though. You need anything, you tell Lin. She'll know where to find me."

"I will."

He nodded, satisfied, and left—spurs jingling as he walked toward where Bombproof was already waiting, eager for the day's work.

And you sat there in the quiet cabin, coffee warming your hands, and wondered how long you could keep pretending you hadn't been watching him sleep.

The hell-cattle were, in Striker's professional opinion, absolute bastards.

Mean, stubborn, and built like they'd been designed specifically to make ranch work as difficult as possible. All horns and attitude, with a tendency to charge at anything that moved wrong.

He loved it.

"Get on, you ornery sons of bitches!" Rusty yelled from the left flank, waving his whip to keep the herd moving.

Striker sat easy in Bombproof's saddle, letting the horse do most of the work. The hell-horse was in his element—darting left and right to cut off cattle that tried to break from the herd, flames flaring bright when one got too close. The cattle had learned quick that Bombproof wasn't to be messed with.

"Striker, we got a runner!" the other farmhand—Chet—called out.

Striker was already moving, Bombproof lunging after the escapee before he even had to give the command. They cut the steer off easily, turning it back toward the herd with practiced efficiency.

"Nice work!" Joe called from where he was overseeing the whole operation. "You got a real partnership with that horse!"

"We've been at this a while!" Striker called back, patting Bombproof's neck. The horse snorted, pleased with himself.

They'd been at this for hours now, moving the cattle from the upper pasture to the lower one. It was hard work—hot, dusty, requiring constant attention. But it was honest work. The kind where you could see the results of your effort.

No hidden contracts. No targets. No blood on his hands at the end of the day.

It was... nice.

Different.

Striker found himself actually enjoying it.

"Heads up!" Rusty's warning came just in time for Striker to wheel Bombproof around, facing down a massive bull that had decided it didn't want to move anymore.

They stared at each other—imp and hell-cattle—both refusing to back down.

"Don't even think about it," Striker growled.

The bull snorted, pawing the ground.

Bombproof's flames flared bright, all four eyes fixed on the bull with unblinking intensity.

The bull backed down first, turning and trotting back to the herd with surprising docility.

"Show off," Striker muttered to his horse.

Bombproof tossed his flaming mane, absolutely shameless in his pride.

By the time they got the whole herd settled in the new pasture, the sun was high and brutal. Striker was covered in dust and sweat, his throat dry as hell itself.

Joe rode up beside him, grinning. "Hell of a first week, Striker. You're a natural at this."

"Like I said—It's in the blood."

"Well, we're damn lucky to have you." Joe tipped his hat. "Why don't you boys take a break? There's water at the pump by the barn. We'll tackle the fence repair after lunch."

Striker nodded, already turning Bombproof toward the barn. The horse knew exactly where the water was—had scoped it out on day one.

As they walked, Striker found himself looking toward the main house. Wondering if you were doing okay. If Lin was working you too hard. If Sallie May had managed to get you into any trouble yet.

She's fine, he told himself firmly. She's with Lin. She's safe.

But he still found himself glancing that direction more than once as he watered Bombproof and himself.

It had been almost a week since you'd arrived at the ranch. Almost a week of steady work, regular meals, sleeping in that damn chair while you took the bed.

Almost a week of pretending this was temporary.

That you'd eventually remember where you came from and leave.

That he wasn't getting attached.

"Who'm I kiddin'?" he muttered to Bombproof, who snorted agreement.

He was already attached. Had been since the moment his horse had found you dying in the desert and guilted him into keeping you alive.

The question was weather he was going to do anything about it.

You found Lin in the hell-horse stables, brushing down a massive mare with the patience of someone who'd done this thousands of times.

"Good morning!" she called when she saw you. "Sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you." You approached cautiously—the hell-horses were beautiful but intimidating, all flames and muscles. "Do you need help with anything?"

"Oh, sweetie, I'm almost done here. But the company would be lovely!" She gestured to a spare brush hanging on the wall. "You want to help me finish up with Daisy here?"

"Is she safe, with new people?" You eyed the mare's flickering mane nervously.

"Safe as houses. Daisy's a sweetheart—been with us for fifteen years. She won't hurt you." Lin smiled encouragingly. "Besides, I heard you've been petting that magnificent horse of Striker's. If you can handle Bombproof, you can handle anyone."

That was fair. You grabbed the brush and approached slowly.

Daisy turned all four of her eyes toward you—curious but not hostile. When you tentatively touched her shoulder, she leaned into it with a pleased rumble.

"There you go! See? Natural." Lin went back to brushing, falling into an easy rhythm. "So how are you settling in? The cabin treating you well?"

"It's wonderful. Much better than—" You stopped yourself.

"Better than where you were before?" Lin asked gently.

"Yeah."

She didn't push for details, which you appreciated. "I'm glad. And Striker? He's treating you well?"

"Very well." You brushed carefully through Daisy's mane, marveling at how the flames felt like warm silk. "He's been... he's been very kind."

"He seems like a good man. Rough around the edges, but good." Lin moved to Daisy's other side, working in comfortable parallel with you. "Joe says he's one of the best workers we've ever had. Knows his way around the ranch like he's been here for years."

Pride bloomed warm in your chest. "He's very capable."

"And protective of you."

You felt your face heat. "I guess."

"Oh, sweetie, there's no guessing about it." Lin laughed, not unkindly. "The way he watches you at supper? Makes sure you're eating enough? Nearly took Sallie May's head off when she got too nosy?" She shook her head fondly. "That man's got it bad."

"Got what bad?"

Lin paused, looking at you with something like surprise. Then her expression softened. "Never mind. You'll figure it out eventually." She went back to brushing. "So, you getting along with everyone? I know the boys can be a handful."

"They're sweet. Loud, but sweet." You smiled. "And Sallie May is... interesting."

"That's one word for her." Lin laughed. "She means well, even when she's asking inappropriate questions. Give her time—she'll warm up to you. Probably already has, honestly. She just shows affection through chaos."

You spent the next hour helping Lin with various tasks around the ranch—feeding chickens, checking on the pigs, organizing supplies in the barn. The work was simple but satisfying, and Lin's constant chatter made it pleasant.

She told you stories about the ranch, about her children, about the various disasters that had befallen the property over the years. She asked gentle questions about you—never pushing when you couldn't answer, accepting your gaps in memory with easy understanding.

By the time you headed back toward the house for lunch, you felt lighter than you had in days.

Supper that night was the usual controlled chaos—the table crowded, conversations overlapping, food being passed around with practiced efficiency.

You were wedged between Striker and one of the boys again, comfortable in the familiar arrangement. Striker's hand rested on the back of your chair—casual, protective, grounding.

"—and then the damn thing exploded!" Sallie May was in the middle of a story, gesturing wildly with her fork. "Took out half the old storage shed. But I was right about the chemical ratio, so technically it was a success."

"Technically you destroyed property," Joe said dryly.

"Potato, po-tah-to."

Everyone laughed, and the conversation moved on—talk of tomorrow's work, plans for the weekend, someone's upcoming birthday.

Then Sallie May turned her sharp eyes on you.

"Hey, Softie. You been into the settlement yet?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "The... settlement?"

"Yeah, you know—actual civilization? Shops, market, all that fun stuff?" Sallie May leaned back in her chair, studying you. "We should go sometime. Get you some actual clothes that fit instead of—" She gestured vaguely at your shirt. "—whatever secondhand situation you got going on there."

You glanced down at yourself. The shirt was Striker's—one of his spares that you'd been rotating through. It hung loose on you sleeves rolled up multiple times.

Heat crept up your neck. "My clothes are fine."

"I mean, they're functional. But they're also like, three sizes too big and very obviously not yours." Sallie May's grin wasn't mean, just observant. "C'mon, it'll be fun! I know a great place, won't cost that much—"

"Really, I'm okay." You forced a smile, trying to deflect. "I don't need anything new."

"Everyone needs something new sometimes," Sallie May pressed. "We could make a day of it! Get you some actual clothes, maybe some—"

"Sallie May, let it go," Joe said quietly.

"I'm just saying—"

"She said she's fine," Striker cut in, voice level but carrying an edge. "Let it go."

Sallie May raised her hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. Just trying to be helpful." But she shot you a look that said we'll talk about this later.

The conversation moved on, but you could feel Striker's attention on you—sharp, assessing. You kept your eyes on your plate, pushing food around, suddenly not hungry.

Money. That's what this was about.

You and Striker didn't have money for frivolous things like new clothes. He was working hard, providing for both of you. The last thing you wanted to do was spend his hard-earned pay on something as unnecessary as a new shirt when the ones you had worked fine.

Even if they were too big. Even if they were his.

Striker's hand moved from the back of your chair to your back—brief, gentle. A silent you okay?

You nodded slightly, not trusting your voice.

His hand squeezed your shoudler once, then returned to the back of the chair.

But you could feel his eyes on you for the rest of the meal.

You'd retreated to the shower in the cabin after supper—partly to clean up, partly to have a moment alone with your thoughts.

The water was lukewarm at best, but it felt good after a day of work. You stood under the spray, letting it wash away the dust and sweat and complicated feelings.

New clothes would be nice. You couldn't deny that. But they weren't necessary. Weren't worth spending money on when that money could go toward food, or supplies, or—or whatever else Striker would need it for.

You'd survived this long in borrowed clothes. You could survive longer.

A knock on your small bathroom door made you jump.

"Yeah?" you called out.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" Striker's voice was muffled by the door, but you could hear the careful neutrality in it.

"Uhh, sure?"

"Why'd you turn down Sallie May's offer? About goin' into the settlement?"

You froze, water streaming down your face. "I told you. My clothes are fine."

"That ain't an answer."

"It is, though. I don't need new clothes."

A pause. "You sure about that? 'You been wearin' the same three shirts since you landed here."

"They're clean!"

"Didn't say they weren't." Another pause. "So what's the real reason?"

You didn't answer, focusing very hard on the water pattern on the tile.

"Darlin', I ain't leavin' this door until you tell me." He sounded almost amused now. "And this cabin ain't that big. Gonna get real awkward if you try to wait me out."

Damn him.

"I just... I don't want to spend your money," you admitted quietly.

Silence from the other side of the door. "Come again?"

"Your money. The money you're earning." You turned off the water, reaching for a towel. "You're working so hard, and I just—I don't want to waste it on something stupid like clothes when what I have works. There's probably other things we need more."

More silence.

Then, so quiet you almost missed it "Satan fuckin' dammit."

"What?"

"Nothin'. Just—hold on."

You heard his spurs jingle as he moved away from the door. You quickly dried off and pulled on the shirt you'd been sleeping in—another one of Striker's, soft from wear and smelling faintly of him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying your hair, you found Striker sitting at the small table. He had his hat off, running one hand through his hair in what you'd learned was a gesture of frustration.

"Striker?"

He looked up, yellow eyes intense in the lamplight. "C'mere."

You approached cautiously. He reached into his vest and pulled out a small leather wallet—worn, well-used. Counted out several bills and held them out to you.

"What's—"

"Take it."

You stared at the money. "I can't—"

"You can and you will." His voice was firm. "You're goin' into that settlement with Sallie May, and you're gettin' yourself somethin' nice. Somethin' that actually fits. Somethin' that's yours."

"But—"

"No buts." He stood, moving closer, pressing the bills into your hand and closing your fingers around them. "This ain't up for debate."

"Striker, you're already providing for both of us. You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I want to." His hands were still around yours, warm and steady. "You think I don't notice you've been makin' do with my old shirts? That you ain't got hardly anything of your own?" His voice gentled. "You deserve to have things that are yours. Nice things. Things that make you feel good."

"But the money—"

"Is mine to spend how I see fit. And I see fit to spend it on you." He squeezed your hands. "Besides, Joe gave me a bonus this week. Said I was doin' exceptional work. So we got extra. And before you argue—" He held up a hand. "—I already set aside plenty for supplies and such. This is extra. For you."

You looked down at the money in your hands, throat tight. "I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll go with Sallie May. Say you'll get yourself somethin' nice." He tipped your chin up gently, making you meet his eyes. "Please?"

The please broke you.

"Okay," you whispered. "Okay, I'll go."

His whole face softened—that rare, genuine smile that transformed him from dangerous to devastating. "Good. That's real good, darlin'."

He released your hands, stepped back, putting proper distance between you. But the warmth lingered.

"Now get some sleep," he said, moving back toward his chair in the corner. "You got a shoppin' trip to prepare for."

You climbed into bed, tucking the money carefully under your pillow, and watched as he settled into that uncomfortable chair with the ease of long practice.

"Striker?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

He tipped his hat down over his eyes, but you caught the smile. "Anytime, Darlin'. Anytime."

And as sleep claimed you, your last thought was that you'd have to find a way to pay him back for this kindness.