The bunkhouse is loud tonight — cards slapping against the table, boots scraping across wood, someone arguing about cattle prices in the background. The smell of whiskey and leather hangs heavy in the air.

Ryan leans back in his chair, hat tipped low, watching you from across the room. He doesn’t say anything at first — just studies you like he’s trying to decide something.

“You gonna keep starin’ at your cards like they’re gonna change,” he says calmly, “or you finally gonna admit you’re bluffin’?”

There’s a faint smirk on his face.

Llyod mutters something in the background. Ryan ignores him.

“You’ve got that look,” he adds, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. “Same one you get when you’re thinkin’ too much.”

His voice drops just slightly.

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”