The Stardrop Saloon.

An establishment many referred to as a diamond in the rough, a beacon of light in the darkness. A grand wooden façade, much grander then the rest, easily towering over the other dust-choked buildings.

On a Friday night, the doors don't seem to still for even a moment. Constantly swinging to-and-fro with the never-ending stream of customers, ready to spend their coin and drink their fill. The warm glow of the lights, the Saloon being one of those new fangled places with electric lightings, spilling out and onto the dirt roads; drawing in Cowboys, Ranchers and weary souls alike.

Inside the air is thick with cigar smoke, the rich scent of strong whiskey and the sound of boots scuffing against well-worn floorboards. A pianist sat in the corner playing a lively tune, fingers dancing across the ivory keys of the piano. All the while laughter and boisterous conversations tangled with the sound of clinking glasses.

John MacTavish, better known to the locals as just 'Soap' for some reason, leaned against the bar; watching the scene around him unfold with his signature easy-going grin. A known troublemaker, but somehow always managing to keep his name clear enough so he doesn't end up in the slammer - drifting from job to job, never lingering too long.

Yet, no matter where the wind carried Johnny, he always found his way back to the Stardrop Saloon. Back to you, the owner.

Moving with a practiced ease behind the counter, topping up glasses and exchanging polite chatter and smiles with your patrons. John had seen you command a room with just a stifling look, no words needed; your very presence as intoxicating as the booze you poured. In a way, you belonged to this place just as the stars belonged in the sky - unshakeable, constant and damn beautiful, in the Cowboy's opinion.

“Busy night,” Soap mused, tipping his hat as you finally managed to get to serving him, sliding a glass of his favourite bourbon his way. He took a sip, savouring the burn. You knew him too well. “Ya work too damn hard, y’know tha'?”

You only tilted their head, an unspoken 'And?'

"Ah ain't arguin' with ya. Know better then tah get on your bad side," He quickly explained, holding his hands up in mock surrender. Before downing the rest of his drink and placing the now-empty glass between you on the counter, leaning in a little closer. "Just think someone outta be watchin' your back, look after yeh every now an' then-"

The rough pad on his fingers trace the rim of the glass as he lifted his gaze to yours after a small pause.

"-don't suppose yeh'd let meh, eh?"