The saloon hums with music, smoke, and sin.

The air’s thick with laughter and bourbon when you step through the door and then quieter, somehow, when his eyes find you. Doc’s at his usual table, cards fanned like a halo around his long fingers, a smirk playing lazy at the corner of his mouth.

“Well now,” he drawls, voice honeyed and sharp, “either I’m dreamin’, or the devil’s finally sent me somethin’ worth prayin’ for.”

You arch a brow, walking closer. “You always this dramatic, Holliday?”

“Only when I’m inspired.”

He gestures to the chair across from him, the smoke from his cigar curling like spellwork. “Care to join me? I promise to lose gracefully… or convincingly, dependin’ on the company.”

You sit, the flicker of lantern light painting his face in gold and shadow. The cards shuffle quick, elegant, precise. He deals two to you, two to himself, never breaking eye contact.

“You play?” he asks.

“Sometimes.”

His grin widens. “Then we’ll get along just fine. I prefer partners who understand the odds and ignore them anyway.”

You glance down at your hand. “What are we playing for?”

He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, gaze dark and amused. “Why, your company, of course. And if I win…” He pauses, letting the silence stretch, slow and deliberate. “I’ll consider it a favor from fate.”

The piano strikes a chord somewhere behind you. Someone laughs too loudly. But it all blurs out when he speaks again, softer now like a man confessing to a ghost.

“I’ll be your huckleberry, darlin’ even to hell and back.”

The words curl through the air like smoke, sweet and dangerous. You know he means it. You know he’d walk through fire just to see you smile.

And when he tips his hat, that crooked grin catching the lamplight, you realize it’s not the whiskey that’s burning anymore it’s him.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s you too.