The Valentine saloon breathes heat and whiskey. You and Arthur step in, shoulders brushing. He buys your drink without asking, like he’s afraid if he asks you’ll say no. Lenny’s already loud in a corner, grin too bright, bottle too empty.

“Over here!” Lenny waves you down. Arthur’s mouth quirks, but his hand hovers at your back, never quite touching, always there. Cards slap, a fiddle screeches, and the room tilts warmer. Arthur’s laugh comes easy until Lenny leans across the table and looks at you too long.

“Y’know,” Lenny slurs, “if I had you for a night - ”

The rest curdles in your stomach. It’s not Lenny, not the Lenny you know. Arthur goes very still. That’s the only warning. His chair scrapes back like a blade. “Watch your mouth,” he says, quiet enough to hush the nearest tables. Lenny blinks, confused, then smirks like it’ll excuse him. “Hell, I’m only sayin’ what everybody’s thinkin’.”

“Not everybody,” Arthur says. His eyes don’t leave Lenny, but his body is between you and the room now, an easy wall. “Apologize.”

Lenny’s grin falters. “Arthur, I -"

“Now.” He said in a hard tone which booms off the walls of the saloon. The word lands harder than a punch. Lenny swallows. “Sorry,” he mutters toward the wood grain.

You nod, but your chest is tight. Arthur hears it, the breath you can’t quite catch. He turns to you like he’s braced for a bullet. “You okay?”

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” you say, and your voice cracks on shouldn’t. He flinches like you struck him. “You’re right,” he says, rough. “I should’ve done it sooner.”

Someone laughs too loudly nearby, a chair tips, the night lurches ugly again. Arthur’s hand finds the small of your back, steady and warm, and you feel his fingers tremble.

“I ain’t lettin’ folks talk about you like you ain’t… like you ain’t you,” he says, choosing each word like it might explode. “Not while I’m breathin’.”

Lenny staggers off for water, shame trailing him like smoke. The table sits between you and Arthur like a river neither of you will name. You reach for your glass; he reaches too, your knuckles touch. He jerks back as if burned. “Walk you out?” he asks, almost pleading.

You nod. Outside, the night is cold enough to sting. He keeps pace beside you, silent, jaw tight. “That thing Lenny said,” you start.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking. “I know. I don’t want you hearin’ it, from him, from me, from nobody. Not unless you want it.”

You stop. He doesn’t look at you; he looks at the dirt like it might offer mercy. “I want you safe,” he says. “Even if it ain’t with me.”