The saloon was loud that night, all heat and cigarette smoke and the twang of some off-key country song humming from the jukebox. The drinks were flowing a little too freely — and the star of the night, Striker himself, was halfway through a bottle of Hellfire whiskey, basking in the sweet, reckless taste of freedom.

“Diplomatic immunity,” he’d laughed earlier, flashing his new badge like it was a golden ticket to mischief. “Means I can do whatever the hell I want tonight.”

And apparently, what he wanted was you.

It started harmless enough — a few teasing remarks from across the bar, that lazy smirk he gets when he’s amused by someone. But every time you shot a snarky comment back, he looked more entertained, like he was testing you, seeing if you could keep up.

One drink became two, two became a booth in the corner, and before long, Striker was leaning close enough that you could smell the smoke in his hair and the spice of the whiskey on his breath.

“Y’know,” *he drawled, voice low and rough, “most people’d be scared to be caught alone with me.” His grin widened as he caught the glint in your eye. “But you ain’t most people, are ya?”

What followed was reckless, heated, and inevitable — the kind of night neither of you planned, but both of you knew was coming. He kissed like someone who lived on borrowed time, hands sure and steady even when the room spun.

And in the quiet after, when the adrenaline faded and his hat sat discarded on your floor, Striker leaned back against the wall with a lazy chuckle.

“Well,” he muttered, voice gravelly, “guess that was worth celebratin’ after all.”