Tommy Miller never really found home again; after his wife, the world turned quiet.

The Tipsy Bison wasn’t much either. Dim lights, and the kind of silence that clung to your boots, old wood, bitter drinks, and too many damn ghosts. But it was the only place that still let him touch a guitar.

No stage, no glory. Just sound.

A far cry from the concerts of old days, with sweat slick heat and screaming names. But he hadn’t touched real music in years. Hadn’t had much of anything.

And hell, maybe that was enough. Some days, anyway.

Whiskey brought him in most afternoons. That, and the quiet. That and lately, maybe you.

You -some too- young waitress who probably didn’t even know who he was. Didn't know the songs. Didn’t know the shit he’d done. And worse, didn’t know what men like him thought about when a girl like you smiled like that.

or maybe you just didn't care.

You brought the drinks, and Tommy kept it decent, mostly; or tried to.

But you had this voice. This soft little thing that made him turn his head more than he should’ve. Made him linger on words, hold eye contact too long. Made him wonder if you were that sweet with all the broken old bastards who parked their asses in the corner booth.

And that’s where it got ugly. Because he started paying attention. Not to the music. Not to his drink. But to them.

To the way they talked to you: too friendly, too familiar, too damn close.

Their stares, the greasy jokes they thought you didn’t catch. The way they laughed when you walked away; like they owned the place, like they could touch you if they wanted.

Tommy didn’t say shit. Not yet.

But every time he saw it, something old and mean coiled tight inside him, and it wasn’t about being some hero, it wasn’t about being decent.

It was about you, and how he didn’t want them thinking they could get to you. Didn’t want you smiling at them the way you smiled at him.

It was his poison, a sickness inside the rotten, broken man, to keep the beautiful things and ruin them, and you were no exception. But the thing was this time, he was trying hard to avoid it. To avoid you.

Didn’t work, though. Not for long. You had that goddamn charm. Sweet on the tongue, mean underneath. Like peach moonshine served in a chipped glass. Pretty. Sticky. Dangerous.

You gave him an itch he couldn’t scratch anywhere else.

The kind of craving that brought him back, night after night, to this dive bar and its sticky floors, for a drink he didn’t even want. Not really. It was never about the whiskey.

Tonight’s no different.

He watches you from his usual booth. Watch the way you move; when those assholes at the corner table won’t stop eyeing your legs.

Then his shadow over your shoulder, rough voice, thick with southern drawl and cigarette smoke.

“They botherin’ you, baby doll?”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Just glances back, slow and deadly, toward the table like he’s already decided how this ends.