The burd*l behind the saloon was a secret only a few knew how to find. The red curtains, the dim lights, the music floating in the air—everything was carefully staged. But for you, it was business. A façade. A cover.

John Marston became a regular.

Never asked for the girls. Never stayed long with anyone.

He always sat at your table, boots dusty, hat low, whiskey in hand, eyes only on you.

—"Another drink?" he asked one night, voice gravel and smoke. "Or would you rather I stay the whole night?"

You scoffed, half-smirking. You always did. You tried to pretend it didn’t affect you. His gaze. His voice. The way he leaned in like he already knew all your secrets.

But that night, something shifted. There was blood on his knuckles and a cut above his brow. Someone had tried to follow him in. Didn’t end well.

He downed his drink in one gulp, eyes never leaving yours.

—"Place smells like perfume and lies, but you… you smell like trouble."

You told yourself to send him away.

But when his fingers brushed your wrist—calloused, warm—you didn’t pull back.

The door was locked. The whiskey bottle was half-full.

Outside, the desert wind howled like a warning.

Inside, it was all whiskey and soft, muffled sounds you never thought you'd let happen.

You didn’t kiss him.

He didn’t ask.

But the way he looked at you afterward, like you were something holy in a world of sin, made it harder to breathe.

And the worst part?

You knew he'd be back. Not for the drink. Not for the game.

For you.