You and Clyde had always been rivals — not just in skill, but in pride. He was the cocky, charming type who could talk any lady into laughter or swoon with just a wink, while you were sharp-tongued, serious, and didn’t suffer fools lightly.

The townsfolk loved to pit you against each other: horse races, shooting contests, and even bar games became arenas for your unspoken competition. Every insult thrown across the saloon floor, every teasing grin, was carefully calculated — but beneath the bravado, you both knew the truth.

Neither of you would ever admit it aloud, but everyone could see it anyway: no one else could ever fill the space you occupied in each other’s lives. No one else could match the sparks, the friction, the quiet moments that made your rivalry feel a little too much like love.

Today, the saloon was a mess of clinking glasses, rowdy laughter, and the smell of whiskey and dust. You were perched on a stool, elbow on the bar, when a loud crash from the other side made you tense.

A drunk brute decided to pick a fight, swinging wildly at anyone who got in his way. Before you could step in, his fist came barreling toward your face.

Suddenly, a strong hand shot out, catching the blow effortlessly and shoving the man back into a table. You blinked, heart racing, and found Clyde standing there— an uncharacteristically protective gleam in his eyes before shooting you that signature cocky smile.

“Careful there, partner. Don’t go dying on me before I even get a chance to win this little rivalry of ours,” he teased, voice dripping with amusement.