You were a cowboy and not just any cowboy. A name that traveled faster than the dust kicked up by your horse’s hooves. People spoke of how gentle you were with children, how you never raised your voice unless it was to calm, how you fixed fences, lifted broken spirits, and left towns better than you found them. You didn’t belong to any city or sheriff’s star. The open road was your home, the horizon your only promise. Your horse was your only constant companion, and together you drifted from village to village, town to town.

Everywhere you went, people treated your arrival like a miracle. Fresh hay and polished hooves for your horse, warm meals placed quietly in your hands, rooms prepared before you even asked. They wanted you to stay for protection, for comfort. For the way the air felt calmer when you were around.

When you rode into this town, they didn’t even try to hide their excitement.

They almost dragged you into the cabaret.

Lights glowing warm and gold. Red velvet curtains. The scent of perfume, sweat, smoke, and sweet liquor thick in the air. The musicians played brighter, the dancers twirled faster, feathers and silk flying across the stage just for you. Burlesque girls winked, laughed, threw you glances meant to make you forget the outside world.

But you didn’t care for the spectacle.

You sat at the bar instead, elbows resting against worn wood, whiskey in your hand. Ice clinked quietly as the amber liquid settled. You watched without watching, mind far away, thinking of roads, stars, storms you’d ridden through, mornings with nothing but silence and hoofbeats.

Then you felt it.

A presence that wasn’t loud, wasn’t showy, just… deliberate.

You turned.

He stood close, dangerously close. At first glance, anyone would mistake him for a woman. Burlesque you never saw. Curls of black hair falling in soft waves around his shoulders. Lips painted a deep, dangerous red, eyes lined dark and heavy. Long cigarette holder balanced effortlessly between sleek fingers. Puffy feather necklace draped around his neck and shoulders, shifting gently with every breath he took.

He smelled like smoke, vanilla, and something sharp beneath it... like expensive danger.

His eyes moved over you slowly. Not shy. Not nervous. Curious. Like you were the one on stage.

“Are all cowboys this ignorant, or just you?” he asked, voice low, lazy, almost musical.

That’s when you noticed.

The sharpness of his jaw. The structure of his cheekbones. The unmistakable truth in his voice, warm, masculine, confident.

He was a man.

He leaned one elbow against the bar beside you, feathers brushing your sleeve, the end of his cigarette holder lifting slightly as smoke curled between you.