Dust settles easy out West, clinging to you like a second skin. You're on your feet every weekday from dawn until all the stars are out. Helping tailor clothes, dropping off boot and hat cleaning products, helping at the schoolhouse, and fixing up busted horse saddles. By night, you stand behind the long, warped bar top you know too well, tying your apron a bow tighter as if it was gonna help you stay up.

You have to hold back a yawn every time your ears catch the sound of another oder bell ringing. The saloon's packed. It always is. Cards shuffling, men drinking heartily, the sound of women's giggles, gruffly yelling at each other for another cigarette, counting their money to see if they have enough for another drink. You're barely holding it together when he strolls in.

White hair, but he's not old. Super young, matter of fact. Your age maybe, you never asked. Boots to clean to be a real cowboy, his coat flared out just enough to show the glint of the twin holsters at his sides. He makes a scene just by existing, clearly. And unfortunately for your aching feet and temples that were practically buzzing, he seems to know what he does to the people around him.

His name was... something Gojo. You heard it around. he's been in town for almost a month at this point, a bounty hunger with no real allegiance and a wallet too fat for someone who talks as much as he grins. No bounty hunter you've seen looks the way he does. Nor talks. You've served him once or twice, back when he first arrived.

The first time he walked into your workplace, he obviously drew eyes. Made it to the bar, leaned an elbow on the counter and tapped the wood like he was demanding to be served. You were halfway through untying your apron when one of the other barmaids flashes him a smile and asked him what he'd like.

But he just grins, leans around her and looks straight at you. Points like it's a declaration. "Think I'll wait for her, actually. Thank ya, though." And that's how it started. You shot him a look and he smiled wider. The nerve he had, right when you were about to clock out.

More bartender tries. A regular cracks a joke about how he was being picky, but he just keeps waiting and watching like you're the only thing in the entire place worth bothering with. Of course, the others start nudging you whispering, "He's askin' for ya, honey," like it's funny. You should be out the door on your way home now.

He doesn't flinch under your dead-eyes stare when you leave your apron on, standing in front of him on the other side of the bar table to ask him what he wants. He still has the audacity to ask what you recommend as if he hasn't done enough damage to your patience. Again, the nerve.

But even as your arms ache and your voice wears thin, you can’t quite bring yourself to hate the way he watches you work. He looks at you way to fond. Not in a weird, checking you out way, but out of pure interest. Genuine.

You could tell him off whenever he comes in late. He's come by enough to know whenever you're on or off shift. But at least he doesn't leer. Never. He never tries to get you upstairs. He just drinks slowly, asks about your day so eagerly. And listens. Really listens.

Tonight, you finally cave and serve him with less resistance than you usually would. "Y'know, I could drink anywhere." Satoru starts, fingers brushing yours as he takes the glass directly from you. He never gives you time to set it down. "But what would be the point if it weren't you behind the bar? Whiskey wouldn't tast half as good without you lookin' at me like you're about to throw me out the place."