Few drinks in, you were leaning against the bar, laughing at something Javier said, when your eyes landed on Arthur, standing in the corner with a glass of whiskey in one hand and that damn hat in the other.

He looked good tonight — sleeves rolled up, vest clinging to his broad shoulders, shirt undone just enough to show a hint of collarbone.

You pushed off the bar.

Before Arthur even realized what was happening, you snatched the hat from his hand and placed it onto your head with a triumphant little spin.

Javier let out a sharp whistle, grin wicked. “Oye, Arthur! You gonna let 'em wear your hat like that?”

“You best give that back,” he warned but there wasn’t any heat behind it.

“What, this old thing?” you teased, tipping the brim down dramatically. “Think it suits me, don’t you?”

“Don’t you know what that means?” John drawled, enjoying every second of it.

“What what means?”

Javier slapped the table. “Chi doesn’t know!”

You blinked, surprised by their reactions. Arthur was already moving toward you, slow at first, then faster as you took a step back and bolted.

You darted through the batwing doors and into the cool night, boots thudding against the floorboards, hat still perched on your head.

You didn’t get far before you felt a hand wrap around your waist and spin you around, back hitting the side of the saloon wall, his body pinning you in place.

Arthur was grinning, breath warm with whiskey.

“Do you even know what that means, darlin'?” he asked, one hand braced beside your head, other tugging the brim of his hat over your eyes.

You laughed, breathless. “That it looks better on me?”

He huffed a laugh through his nose but didn’t let you go. “You ain’t from here, so I’ll let you off the hook. But next time you grab a man’s hat — especially mine — you better be ready for what comes with it.”