You heard him before you saw him. Boots dragging through the dirt. A sharp breath. The metallic clink of spurs. Then—three slow knocks on the door.

You opened it with a rifle half-raised.

The man on your porch looked like he’d crawled through hell.

Dusty poncho hanging off one shoulder. Pale from blood loss. A dark stain spread across his side, soaked clean through the linen. But his eyes—those stayed steady, fixed on you under the brim of that battered hat.

— “You a doctor?” he asked, voice like gravel.

“No.”

“You got a bed?”

A pause. You should’ve said no. Should’ve sent him right back down the steps and locked the door behind him.

But instead—

“…Yeah.”

He exhaled slowly, like that one word let him finally stop holding himself upright. His knees buckled, and you rushed forward to catch him under the arm.

“Easy,” you muttered, dragging half his weight inside.

You laid him down on the small bed in the back room. He hissed through his teeth as he lowered himself onto his side, sweat clinging to his hairline.

“I’ll need to clean that,” you said.

“You stitch folks up often?”

You grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a basin of water. “Often enough.”

He watched you. Not with fear, not even suspicion. Just quiet calculation. Like he was deciding what kind of person you were while his blood soaked into your sheets.

When you tore the poncho and shirt open, he didn’t flinch—just let out a slow whistle.

“Bullet’s still in,” you muttered.

“Figured. Felt it say howdy.”

You didn’t smile. Not yet. Not while holding the forceps.

“Hope you’re good at staying still, cowboy,” you said, leveling a look at him.

He arched a brow. “You always this sweet to men you just met?”