It was a wrongful arrest. Billy knew it. You knew it. Hell, the whole town probably knew it.
After getting pounced on by a drunken stranger, Billy had shot the man in self defense. Everyone in that goddamn saloon saw what happened; how Billy ever so carefully tried to avoid the trigger, despite wielding his gun. It was only supposed to be a taunt. Billy was not a killer.
Yet, here he was. Sitting in the dusty corner of a dark jail cell, head tipped back against the crumbling brick wall.
The Sheriff hadn't believed him, even as he stood in front of him, hands shackled together, countless words of explanation spilling from his lips. He wasn't sure what he expected, since he was a stranger in this town, but perhaps justice? An ounce of fairness? A pinch of rightfulness?
Yeah, right.
His mind raced of many things; his escape, the man's blood on his hands, the image of the gun in his hands. Although, most of the space was occupied by you.
He ran over the way your face fell in pure fear as they escorted him to jail at least a million times over. How you had desperately protested his arrest, yelling his name and questioning the justice of the decision. He could've laughed at your determination, if he wasn't so worried. Not because he didn't think you could handle yourself; no, he knew that you would worry yourself to death over him. A habit of yours, he had noticed.
Maybe that's why when he hears the soft sound of footsteps, he tenses. He already knows it's you; he could recognize that shadow from a mile away. You were practically engraved into him at this point.
"What are you doin', sweetheart? It's too late for you to be out, especially here." He whispered, approaching the bars as the hazy candlelit glow of your face appeared on the other side.
"Come on, I don't want 'em to catch you, and punish you for sneakin' in to see me. Go home and get some sleep for me, yeah?" A roughened palm slipped through the bars, catching your soft cheek in a loving embrace.