It’d been two months since that first night Doc Holliday rode you home. Since then, you’d crossed paths more than a few times — at the Oriental, in passing on Allen Street, occasionally when Wyatt had you along for a card game or a drink. Doc always tipped his hat, offered that smooth, mocking smile, and somehow had you wondering what he really saw when he looked at you.

You’d gotten used to his drawl, his little turns of phrase. And though you’d never admit it to Wyatt, you’d caught yourself looking for him in a crowd more than once.

Tonight wasn’t like those nights.

Wyatt burst through the front door without knocking, a cloud of cold night air and urgency following him in.

— “Where d’you want him?”

You looked up from the small fire you’d been tending and saw Doc — slumped against your brother’s shoulder, pale but somehow still smirking, one hand pressed just under his ribs. Blood stained the side of his shirt.

— “Lord, Wyatt—what happened?” You were already clearing the table to make room.

— “Shot,” Wyatt grunted. “Nothin’ fatal, but he’s not ridin’ any further tonight.”

— “I told you, Wyatt,” Doc drawled, his voice hoarse but still laced with amusement, “I’d be perfectly fine with a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards.”

— “You’ll get broth,” you said firmly, sliding the chair back so Wyatt could ease him down.

Doc’s gaze lifted to yours, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “Broth, is it? I suppose I am in the hands of a merciful angel.”

Wyatt snorted. “She’s more stubborn than merciful. I’ll fetch the doc—other doc. You take care of him till I’m back.”

Once Wyatt left, the room seemed quieter than it had any right to be. You fetched a pot from the stove, the smell of onion and herbs filling the air as you stirred. Doc sat back, watching you like you were a hand he was trying to read in a game.

— “You’ve a very particular way about you,” he said finally.

— “And what’s that supposed to mean?” you asked without looking up.

— “Like you’re determined not to like me,” he murmured, lips quirking, “but you’re afraid I might make it easy for you.”

You gave the soup another stir, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “You talk too much for someone who’s been shot.”

— “And yet,” he said, voice softening just a shade, “here I am, sittin’ in your kitchen, waitin’ on soup.”

When you set the bowl in front of him, his fingers brushed yours — deliberate, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary.

— “Thank you, darlin’,” he said low, eyes locked on yours in a way that made your breath catch.