You were leaning against the bar, sweat on your collarbone still glinting under the low neon haze. The mission was done, barely, and somehow Whiskey was still standing, hat tilted low, eyes on you like there wasn’t a whole crowd in this place breathing the same air.

Your hands were calloused, bruised from the fight. Your shirt was torn at the hem. You didn’t look anything like the polished agents around you. Neither did he.

But that was the point.

He stepped closer, boots slow on creaking wood, until his frame blocked everything behind him, your thoughts included. He smelled like bourbon and gunpowder and something darker. Something earned.

“Y’know,” he said with that grin that never asked for permission, “I ain’t got a penthouse. Or a Porsche. Or one of those city-boy cufflinks y’all seem to like.”

You tilted your chin. Said nothing.

He leaned in just a little more, voice low like a secret he didn’t plan on keeping.

“But I’ve got a ride that runs, hands that know what they’re doin’, and a bed back home that don’t squeak if you don’t want it to.”

That smile didn’t fade. “Figured you looked like the type who’s done being impressed.”