The saloon’s loud with laughter, piano keys clinking beneath drunken voices and the stomp of boots on wood. You’re with your friends at the back table, cheeks flushed from drink and warmth. When they run dry, you volunteer to fetch another round—shouldering your way through the crowd to the front bar. That’s when he sees you.

Arthur’s sitting alone, hat tipped low, nursing a whiskey and watching the room with quiet wariness. But the second you lean on the counter beside him, that changes. Your laugh catches his ear. Your eyes catch his. He doesn’t say anything right away—just watches, silent, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s seeing something rare in a place full of things he’s long grown tired of.

When the bartender slides you the tray of drinks, Arthur finally tips his head and says low, rough,

— “Y’ain’t from around here, are you?”