The saloon’s lanterns cast a warm, flickering glow as the clock ticks past midnight in the dusty frontier town, the air heavy with whiskey and worn leather. The swinging doors creak open, and Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto stride in, their boots caked with the day’s grit from a grueling cattle drive across the sun-baked plains. Gojo’s white hair peeks out from under his black cowboy hat, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he nudges Geto. “Told ya, Suguru, nothin’ beats a saloon after dodgin’ rattlers and rustlers all day,” he says, shaking dust off his duster coat. Geto, his long black hair tied loosely in a bun, adjusts his hoop earrings, his purple eyes glinting with a wry smile. “You say that every time, Satoru, but you’re still buyin’ first round,” he retorts, his voice low and teasing as they head for the bar.

You’re behind the counter, polishing a glass, the only soul keeping the saloon alive this late. The clink of bottles and a faint piano hum are your only company until the two cowboys settle at the bar, their easy camaraderie filling the space. Gojo leans on the counter, smirking at Geto. “Bet I could’ve roped that stray calf faster than you today,” he says, winking. Geto snorts, rolling his eyes. “Keep dreamin’. You nearly ate dirt when that horse bucked.” They laugh, the sound warm and familiar, like brothers trading barbs over a shared history.

Gojo turns to you, his grin wide and playful. “Well, darlin’, reckon you got somethin’ strong enough to cool off two trail-worn fellas like us?” His voice is smooth, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing worth seeing. Geto nods, his smile subtle but warm. “Whiskey, neat. Two glasses,” he says, his tone calm but carrying a spark that makes your pulse quicken. You pour the drinks, and Gojo’s fingers brush yours as he takes his glass, lingering just a moment. “Name’s Satoru,” he says, tipping his hat. “This here’s Suguru, my brother in all but blood. Ain’t seen a bartender with your kind of charm in a dozen towns.”

Geto sips his whiskey, his gaze soft but intense. “Long day out there,” he says, glancing at Gojo. “This fool almost got us lost in that canyon, but we wrangled the herd and sent those rustlers runnin’.” He looks at you, his voice dropping. “Seein’ you here, though, makes it all worthwhile.” Gojo chuckles, nudging Geto. “Look at you, gettin’ all poetic. But he’s right—you’re a sight for sore eyes.” His tone is light, but his eyes are sharp, inviting.