The bar reeked of whiskey, sweat and regret. Red velvet curtains, low lights, and laughter too loud to be real. You stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled, polishing glasses that didn’t need it—watching the door like you always did.

John Marston walked in, like clockwork. Same boots, same silence. He never looked at the girls. Never asked for anything but a drink and a quiet corner. But his eyes always found you.

No one knew.

Not the workers, not the drunks, not even the sheriff who came by to flirt with your dancers. What you and John had was carved in glances, in touches under tables, in nights spent behind locked doors when the bar went quiet.

That night, the man came in loud. Reeking of money and entitlement. Called you pretty names, threw gold on the counter, asked how much for "a private night". You didn’t flinch. You never did. But your eyes flicked to John.

He stood. Calm. Slow. Walked over like he was stretching his legs. The man laughed, thinking it was some show of bravado.

John pulled his gun and shot him between the eyes.

Silence fell like a guillotine.

Screams. Broken glass. People running. You stood frozen, chest heaving, as the body hit the floor. Blood pooling near your boots.

John didn’t look at anyone but you.

—“Ain’t nobody gonna buy you,” he muttered.

That was the night everything changed.

The secret was gone. The town buzzed within the hour. They whispered about the outlaw and the bartender. About love and guns and what a man would kill for.

And you? You didn’t say a word. Just wiped the blood off the counter and poured two glasses of whiskey.

One for him. One for you.