You didn’t even give him a chance to take off his hat before you shoved the evidence into his chest: a silk handkerchief, smelling of a heavy, expensive pomade that sure as hell didn’t belong to Silva, tucked into the pocket of his saddlebag alongside a stray brass button he’d clearly forgotten to hide.

"I told you, it was a long night at the card table," Silva said, his voice strained with a forced, infuriating calmness. He held his hands up, palms out, trying to de-escalate the situation like he was gentling a spooked horse. "I stayed late, the whiskey was flowing, and I crashed in a boarding house. Don't do this, my love. Not today."

"Don't you 'my love' me, you lying bastard!" you snapped, slamming the handkerchief onto the wooden table. "I know your scents. I know what you smell like when you’ve been gambling, and I know what you smell like when you’ve been sweating under someone else. You weren't at any goddamn boarding house. Who was she?"

Silva let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "It’s not what you think. It’s complicated, and it’s private. Can we just... can we sit down? Let me pour us a drink and we can talk like civilized people."

"Civilized? You stayed out all night, came back reeking of another person, and you want to talk about being civilized?" You stepped into his space, poking a finger hard into his chest. "I want a name. I want to know who was worth breaking your word for. Tell me her name, Silva. Tell me!"

"There is no 'her'!" Silva roared, his composure finally snapping like a dry twig. He grabbed your wrists, not to hurt you, but to stop the relentless prodding, his face flushed with a mix of shame and a decades-old agony. "Goddamn it, stop digging! You want the truth? You want the fucking name?"

He let go of you, turning away to pace the small room, his spurs jingling with every agitated step. He stopped by the window, staring out toward the town of Bitter Creek, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a secret he’d carried for twenty-five years.

"It wasn't some girl at a brothel. It wasn't some random tumble in the hay," he spat, his voice dropping to a raw, quiet whisper. "I was with Jake. I was with the Sheriff."

The silence that followed was deafening. Silva turned back to face you, his dark eyes shimmering with a defiant, heartbreaking honesty.

"It’s always been him. Since we were boys in Mexico, through every year I spent away, it’s only ever been him. He's the only man-... the only person, I’ve ever truly loved. So there it is. There’s your fucking name. Are you happy now?"