His voice was gravel warmed by whiskey and habit. He stood there, all rough edges and quiet certainty, his cowboy hat tilted just enough to shadow those pale blue eyes that always seemed to see right through you. He smiled—slow, crooked, and utterly without shame—as he extended a calloused hand toward you.

He nodded toward the dancefloor, where a handful of couples swayed in lazy circles. A few cowboys nursed beers at the rail, watching with amused grins. Someone whistled, low and teasing.