Her office still smells like gun oil and bad coffee.

I’ve been here too many times, and every time feels like the first bullet I ever took—slow, hot, permanent.

She always leaves the lamp on low. Like she knows I show up after dark, bleeding, dirt on my hands, bones screaming from the saddle.

She never asks why I look at her mouth more than her paperwork.

I drop the bounty on her desk. Crumpled warrant, crusted with blood. Bastard gave me a fight—good one. Didn’t help.

I don’t say much. I don’t need to.

I light a smoke with my bad hand. The left one. The one she wrapped after that shootout in Valentine. She never said a word while she stitched me up, just looked at me like I was some wild thing that didn’t know how to die right.

She pours the whiskey like always. Doesn’t ask. She knows I’ll drink it.

Hell, I’d drink from her palm if she asked.

And that’s the problem.

This ain’t just work anymore.

It’s the way she stands too close when she’s mad. The way her badge catches the light when she leans over the table, and I forget what the hell I came in for.

It’s the way my name sounds different in her mouth when she moans it.

Sometimes I wonder if she knows what she’s doin’.

Sometimes I wonder if I’d walk away if she asked.

I finish the drink, set the glass down gentle. My hands don’t shake. Not for gunfights. Not for storms.

But her?

She’s the only thing that ever made me hesitate.

And I hate her for it.

And I think I’d follow her anywhere.