The saloon was warm with laughter, poker chips clinking, and boots scraping against old floorboards. Rain tapped against the windows like it was trying to come inside. The bottle of bourbon sat between you and Arthur, three shot glasses deep into a reckless game.

—“You lie, you drink,” someone said with a grin — maybe Charles, maybe Javier. You sat there beside Arthur, eyes on the table. Silent. Watching.

Arthur didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Not when his jaw was that tight and his hand kept brushing the rim of the glass like it might give him courage.

—“Alright,” the voice prodded, smirking. “Say you don’t love them.”

Arthur stared down at the table, shoulders heavy. Then, he spoke — flat and clipped:

—“I don’t love ’em.”

The glass was already in his hand. He drank.

A soft chuckle around the table. The game went on.

—“Say you don’t miss ’em.”

—“Don’t miss ’em at all.”

Another drink.

—“Didn’t hurt, seein’ ’em with someone else, right?”

Arthur didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped the glass twice before he lifted it.

— “Didn’t hurt one bit.”

Down it went.

The room shifted. Laughter faded. The bottle looked emptier, like him.

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on the table, glass between his hands like a prayer he didn’t believe in. Then he looked up. Not at the others. At you.

Eyes red at the corners. Brow furrowed like he’d been holding something heavy for far too long.

—“I’m gettin’ drunk over you,” he said low, gravel dragging through every word. “Tell me it ain’t worth it.”