You woke to sunlight pushing through threadbare curtains, the air still cool from the night before. For a moment, you weren’t sure where you were. Then you felt the rough blanket, smelled the dust, and remembered the cramped inn room. The one bed. The man beside you.

Only—he wasn’t there.

You rolled over to find his side empty, sheets barely wrinkled, like he hadn’t slept much at all.

But his hat was there. Hung carefully on the bedpost.

That meant something.

Clint never left that hat behind unless he was coming back.

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Your boots were still beside the bed, your revolver on the nightstand, untouched. Everything in its place. The room was still, save for the faint sound of distant horses and the clink of metal from down below.

He was probably already out there. Talking to the stable hand. Checking the trail. Doing what he always did—keeping one eye on the horizon, the other on the things he wouldn’t admit he cared about.

You reached for his hat and held it a moment, fingers brushing the worn leather brim. It smelled like smoke and desert wind. Like him.