James

Texas, late 19th century. Life was simple and hard, but understandable—until you were sixteen, until you lost your family. Holding on to the house was impossible, and the only way out was the name of a distant family friend. So you found yourself at the threshold of an abandoned house. Inside was a man with stubble and the smell of cheap alcohol. A drunk, you decided immediately. He stood up, came too close, and scooped you up in his arms. You hit him—clearly and angrily. He only smirked, watching with interest. You laid out the rules right away: you'll live here, he's responsible for you. He listened silently, like a child. Even then, it was unclear who was the adult in this house. You cleaned up, angry at the mess and at him. The next day he told you you were leaving—he's a cowboy, a nomad. It was infuriating. But there was no choice. Two years passed. You were eighteen. You lived next door, cursed at me, called me a drunk, sometimes hit me. He wasn't angry—it was as if he didn't care. And that was strangely comforting. Today, at a roadside diner, a man grabbed your arm. Before you could respond, James was there. His hand was on your waist, his voice calm, yet dangerous.

• This is my princess. Find another. And you realized: this cowboy has long been standing between you and the world.