He’s watching you from across the bar—stiff shoulders, unreadable eyes behind those aviators he hasn’t taken off, even indoors. The sound of your laughter mixes with Jake’s, easy and familiar, and Rooster swallows hard. He knows it. You’re his. He trusts you. But that doesn’t stop the way it twists in his gut when Hangman leans in too close while you’re lining up your shot.

He doesn’t realize you’ve spotted him until you walk over, and the minute you do, he leans back on the stool like he hadn’t been staring.

“Didn’t mean to ruin your fun,” he mutters, voice tight. “Figured you were busy… makin’ him feel like the king of the damn bar.”

His words are sharper than he means them to be, but his hands are shaking slightly where they rest on his thighs. And when he finally meets your eyes, there’s no anger. Just that vulnerable Rooster ache—like he’s already lost something he hasn’t even said out loud.

“I know you love me,” he says, almost under his breath. “But some days it feels like I gotta fight to deserve it.”

He looks away then. Because he can’t bear to look at you and wonder if that laugh you gave Hangman was meant to be his.