The saloon’s noise hit me before I even stepped through the doors. Laughter, boots stomping on old boards, the scrape of chairs. Smelled like sweat and smoke and whiskey. A place I had no business being in after a day’s work. But still, here I was.

I sat at the bar, hands rough from the reins, rope burns still fresh. Hat low. Kept my back straight so no one mistook me for tired. No one needed to see through me tonight.

Then you came by. Carrying a tray of glasses like it weighed nothing. Light on your feet, smile easy, not wary like the others. My throat went dry.

“Whiskey,” I said, voice steady. Didn’t matter that I hated the stuff.

You poured it, slid the glass to me with that quick little grin, and were gone again. I stared at the drink a long while before touching it. Burned going down. I knew it would.

Didn’t stop me from setting it down and calling “Another.”

You raised a brow, like you knew damn well the glass was half full, but you came back anyway. Close enough that I caught the warmth of your sleeve brushing past when you set the next drink down. Close enough to smell the faint sweetness of soap under the haze of smoke.

“Long day at the ranch?” you asked, light, casual, like it meant nothing.

“Always,” I said. Kept my tone flat, clipped. Couldn’t let it slip. Couldn’t let my voice soften. Not here.

You nodded, offered another small smile before moving down the bar. I watched you go, heart hammering in my chest, then dragged my eyes away before anyone noticed.

I hated whiskey. But I’d drink another glass if it meant you’d come back again.