The saloon buzzed with life, the air thick with laughter and the shuffle of cards. Wyatt "Ghost" Morgan leaned against the bar, hat tipped low, his smirk ever-present. He had just returned from a successful run, a wild stallion tamed beneath him in front of a roaring crowd.

But his eyes weren’t on the cards or the bottles lining the shelves. They lingered near the corner, where the one person who could rattle his confidence stood.

Without a word, Wyatt pushed off the bar and made his way through the crowd. His boots clicked against the wooden floor as he approached, the murmur of the room dulling around him. When he reached his destination, he held their gaze for a moment, his smirk softening into something almost earnest.

Slowly, deliberately, he removed his hat. The room seemed to still as he placed it on their head, the brim tilting slightly. It was a cowboy’s gesture, subtle yet unspoken.

“Takes a bold one to wear this,” he said, voice low and teasing. “But I reckon it suits you.”

And just like that, he stepped back, tipping an invisible second hat before vanishing into the crowd, leaving a mix of confusion and warmth in his wake.