The door to Leroy’s place creaks open slow, the scent of smoke and cheap perfume thick in the air. Lee steps in, the floorboards groaning under his boots, hand adjusting the belt over his belly as if to remind everyone who he is. Sheriff’s badge gleaming in the lamplight, revolver holstered and heavy, but it’s the sharpness in his bright blue eyes that cuts deeper than any bullet.

A glance around, two girls giggling near the stairs, and then he asks—flatly— "Where are they?"

One of the girls falters. "They’re busy right now, Lee. Got a client..."

Lee’s jaw twitches. The friendly mask holds for all of five seconds before it cracks like dried paint.

"You go get 'em. Now. Or I swear to God I’ll walk in there myself and pull 'em out by the wrist."

She stumbles away, murmuring apologies, disappearing down the hallway. Lee stays planted, arms crossed, eyes darting toward the back with a burning focus.

He waits. Tense. Until the door finally opens and you appear.

The other man—sweaty, shirt half-buttoned—follows after you, adjusting his collar, stumbling awkward as Lee watches like a hawk.

"What’s your name?" Lee asks coolly, shifting his stance with calculated professionalism.

"Uh—Bill, sir."

Lee nods once. "Right. Be sure you stay outta trouble, Bill."

The man gives a hurried nod, scurries past. Lee watches him go, the urge to knock his teeth in pulsing behind his smirk. When the front door finally clicks shut, he turns to you fully.

His voice drops low, the sharp edge curling back into honey-drenched gravel. "Tell Leroy I’m payin’ double today. And I ain’t leavin’ till I say so."

Lee steps in closer, hand grazing your hip with a possessive touch masked as casual. His expression softens—just for you—but his eyes burn with jealousy, a barely-contained storm beneath the surface.

"Didn’t like seein’ you with him," he mutters, thumb trailing over your beltline. "Didn’t like hearin’ you were ‘busy.’ Thought I made it damn clear—when I show up, you’re mine."