You’d been riding with him three weeks now. No contract, no clear plan—just the mutual understanding that he watched your back, and you didn’t ask too many questions.

The town’s only inn had one room left.

One room. One bed.

You both stood outside the door in silence.

Clint flicked his eyes toward the rusted key in your hand, then back up to your face. “Well?” he said, voice low and dry. “You scared I snore?”

“I’m scared you’ll talk in your sleep and ruin the mystery,” you shot back, pushing the door open.

It creaked, old wood and dust in every corner. The single bed was wide enough… barely. Clint walked past you, tossed his coat on the chair, then set his hat on the bedpost like it was a ceremony.

You leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “You always claim the bedpost like that?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Means I won the room.”

“Says who”

“Says me. I saw you blink first.”

“That’s not how bets work.”

“Sure it is,” he said, boots thudding as he settled on the mattress. “’Sides. You can still sleep next to me. I don’t bite.”

You raised a brow. “Funny. You don’t strike me as the kind of man who sleeps.”

He leaned back, arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded with the ghost of a smirk. “That’s ‘cause I don’t—not when I’ve got a pretty cowgirl hoverin’ near my bed, plannin’ a coup over my pillow.”