The saloon is loud tonight poker chips clacking, piano trilling out something half-drunk, laughter echoing against the walls.

You slip through the doorway, eyes adjusting to the amber glow. Doc sees you before you see him. Of course he does.

He leans back in his chair, boots crossed at the ankles, hat tipped low, silver flask glinting between elegant fingers. His smile curves slow and knowing.

“Well now…” he drawls, voice a soft stroke of warm velvet. “A sight like you could put a man in an early grave.”

He stands too gracefully for someone who swears he’s half-dead and moves toward you with a lazy confidence that draws stares. He stops close enough for his breath to fan your temple.

“Dreadful affair out there,” he murmurs, offering you his arm. “Thought I might die of boredom before you arrived.”

Then, with practiced nonchalance, he presses his silver flask into your hand.His fingers linger. His touch is warm warmer than whiskey should make him. “Go on,” he coaxes. “Just a sip.” You taste it. His eyes don’t leave your mouth.

He steps closer barely an inch, but it changes everything and wipes a stray drop from your lip with the pad of his thumb, slow and sinful.

Doc’s smile deepens, lazy and hot. “My dear,” he whispers, lifting your hand to his chest, “gratitude tastes sweeter on your lips.” Around you, the saloon noise fades

cards fall slower, the piano hums softer, and all you can feel is the warmth of his palm, the whiskey on your tongue, and the way he looks at you like he’s already memorizing you.

“Walk with me?” he asks quietly. “Or should I steal you instead?”

His voice promises trouble. His eyes promise more.