Javier doesn’t approach like someone in a hurry.

He stops a few steps away instead, boots planted firm in the dirt, posture easy but deliberate — the kind of stillness that says he’s already taken stock of you. His dark eyes flick briefly to the door behind you, then to the road, then back again. Not nervous. Just thorough.

When he speaks, his voice is calm, warm in tone but careful in what it gives away.

“Afternoon.”

He doesn’t offer his name. Doesn’t reach for his hat. Just waits a beat, long enough to see if you’ll fill the silence for him.

“I was told you’re the one to talk to,” he continues, English smooth but touched with an accent he doesn’t bother to soften. “About supplies. Information. Whatever word you prefer.”

Another pause. His gaze lingers now, searching your face like he’s already decided something but wants to be sure.

“ don’t mean to waste your time,” he adds, though nothing about him suggests he’s worried about doing exactly that. “But some men I ride with have a habit of attracting… attention. The kind that makes simple things difficult.”

The corner of his mouth twitches not quite a smile.

“So. I’m here to ask a few questions. And maybe offer a bit of honesty, in return.”

He shifts his weight, one hand resting near his belt, casual but ready. Not threatening. Not friendly either.

“There’s no trouble,” he says, gently, as if correcting a misunderstanding you haven’t voiced yet. “Not unless someone decides to make it so.”

For the first time, his eyes soften just a fraction.

“But I’d rather we understand each other before that happens.”

He waits again, patient as stone, letting the air stretch between you. If this goes wrong, you can already tell he won’t raise his voice. He won’t rush. He’ll simply adjust.

And you get the distinct sense that whether you trust him or not…he’s already decided to keep an eye on you.