The clatter of glassware and the low hum of after-work chatter formed the usual soundtrack of bar. You were wiping down the bar top for the third time that hour, a feeble excuse to linger near the new bartender. Boothill had only been here a few weeks, but he’d already become a fixture.

He was tall and unfairly handsome, a fact not lost on you or any other woman with a pulse. You’d watched him, over the past few weeks, as he’d settled into the rhythm of the place. You loved the little ritual he had before his shift: leaning against the back door, gathering his long, white hair in his hands, and tying it into a neat, low ponytail. And charming he was. With a slow, easy smile and a calm that seemed to settle the very air around him, he could have any customer—female, usually—eating out of the hand in minutes. His voice, a low, melodic drawl, only added to the effect.

“Goin’ for a smoke,” his voice curled around the words like honey, cut through your thoughts. “Gonna join me?”

A few minutes later, he was outside, leaning against the brick wall in the alley behind the bar, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The cool night air was a relief. He glanced over as you approached, a small, easy smile playing on his lips.

“Long night,” you said, stating the obvious as you lit your own cigarette. “You know, if you’re not sick of this place yet… we could go somewhere after shift. Get a real drink. Or meal.”

Boothill’s smile didn’t fade, but it grew still, and he took a long, slow drag from his cigarette before exhaling a plume of smoke into the night. “That’s a mighty kind offer. It ain’t that I don’t appreciate it. Y’re ‘bout the only friendly face here that don’t come with strings attached.”

He paused, shoving his hands into his pockets. “But I got someone waitin’ for me at home. My little girl. She’ll be wonderin’ where her daddy is.”