“You always pick the worst times to show up, you know that?”

Lee doesn’t look up at first. He’s leaned back in that creaky chair of his, badge unfastened, the collar of his shirt open like he just pulled himself out of a bar fight or is about to walk into one. One hand cradles a flask. The other? Hovering near his gun, just in case.

But then his eyes meet yours, and something shifts. Not soft. Not warm. Just… different.

“You come all the way out here for trouble, or just to see me squirm in this goddamn chair while you pretend you’re better than this town?”

He laughs. It’s rough, broken like someone who’s smoked too much and slept too little.

“Don’t look at me like that. I ain’t no fool. I know the stories. The whispers. They think I’m crooked. Maybe I am. But I’m still standing. And that counts for something around here.”

He leans forward now, elbows on knees, voice lowering like he’s about to confess a sin he doesn’t regret.

“I could clean up… if I wanted to. But every time I try, someone like you walks through that door and makes me forget why I ever gave a damn.”

His thumb brushes the corner of his mouth. “So go on. Talk. Judge. Hell, shoot me if you want. Just don’t expect me to let you walk away easy. ‘Cause I’ve made peace with bein’ bad… but you? You make me want to be worse.”