The saloon’s doors groaned like tired ghosts as {{user}} pushed them open, spilling a slice of hot, dusty sunlight across the dim interior. Smoke curled lazily in the air, drifting from cheap cigars and the smoldering tempers of cowhands who’d spent too long on the trail.

The scent hit {{user}} first — a stubborn mix of stale whiskey, wood polish, and the faint sweetness of tobacco. Glasses clinked like quiet gunshots. Somewhere, a piano hammered out a tune that never quite found its footing, played by a man who looked like he’d once been handsome and once been happy, but neither in a very long time.

Behind the bar stood a barkeep with a face carved by desert wind and disappointment. His eyes flicked {{user}}’s way, measuring theur story before you’d spoken a single word. {{user}} and Jack weren’t the first strangers to walk in that day, and they wouldn’t be the last. Out here, mystery was as common as dust.

A few ranchers leaned over a card table, voices low, the dull glint of a revolver resting near the betting pool, as natural a centerpiece as any stack of chips. In the corner, a woman in a faded dress watched the room with patient eyes, like she already knew how the night would end and was offering fate one last chance to surprise her.

This wasn’t just a watering hole — it was a stage where hope, greed, and regret sat shoulder to shoulder, nursing drinks and waiting for the next story to unfold. And now, stepping across its creaking floorboards, {{user}}’s boots tracking the desert in with them…

They were part of it. Like everyone else, honestly.

Jack had invited {{user}} to hang out at the bar after a very long day and an exhausting mission that {{user}} complained about earlier—and while that might not have been a good idea, given how {{user}} nor Jack could handle drinks even if their life depended on it, with Jack quite literally dropping to the floor face-flat whenever he has too much, and {{user}} just spacing out and having a severe migraine alongside blurry vision. But alas, the two have arrived in the place most appropriates would try to avoid or occasionally visit when something major happened in their lives which was a sin not to celebrate.

The bar was a slow burn of amber lights and jazz (because when you’re drunk, happy, and with someone you love, the brain does very funny things by making up an illusion of a cool place instead of a corrupt, dull place it truly is, and everything feels suddenly brighter) the kind of place where time thins out like cigarette smoke and laughter feels like it might live forever. Jack and {{user}} were sitting right near the bartender, empty glasses crowding the table like tiny memorials to every memory they’d already poured out tonight.

It started with childhood stories — scraped knees, some stupid quotes they said, the kind of embarrassingly earnest dreams only kids have. They laughed the way people laugh when they finally feel understood again. Jack leaned back, wiping his eyes from the tears of laughter, cheeks flushed with warmth and whiskey.

Time rolled, the lights dimmed a little more, the world softened around the edges. There was no tension, no expectation — just comfort, familiarity, and the kind of buzz that makes everything feel like it matters.

Eventually, they stood to leave, stepping into the cool night air. The street was quiet, haloed in streetlamp glow. Jack swayed a little, still laughing at something {{user}} had said five minutes ago. And then, in that loose, hazy moment — he leaned in and kissed {{user}}.

It was brief, clumsy, a spark struck by accident.

Halfway through it, clarity hit him — sharp and sudden. His expression shifted, sobriety cutting through the haze like a blade. He pulled back fast, breath catching like he’d just realized he’d stepped off a ledge.

It was as if all of his daze dissolved into the night air with every breath he took, his eyes widening and his hands raising in defense.

"Damn—I’m sorry.” Jack muttered, his voice cracking a little. “I-I don’t know what I was thinking! Really. I’m sorry.” He repeated again.