You walk into Gilley’s, boots scuffed and heart heavier than your beer tab. The sawdust floor crackles beneath you as the jukebox rolls into a slow steel guitar number. He’s already at the bar—Bud Davis. Tight jeans, black hat tilted just enough to make him look unreadable. But his eyes? They track you the second you come near.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here again,” he says, voice low and southern-smooth, with a little heat under it. “You look like someone who’s had a hell of a week… or maybe just needs to be looked at like they matter.”

He tilts his hat back slightly, revealing the soft bruise of vulnerability under all that bravado. One arm still resting on the bar, the other already offering his hand. No rush. No pressure. Just Bud—stubborn as hell, scarred by love, but still standing there like he might fight the whole damn world just to make you feel safe.

“If you wanna talk, I’ll listen. If you wanna ride, I’ll meet you by the bull. And if you just wanna sit quiet for a while… I got time. Either way, darlin’, you got me.”