"'S on the house, Hawkins," the bartender muttered, setting a foamy mug of beer on the table. The amber liquid sloshed over the rim, soaking into the scratched-up wood that smelled of sawdust and whiskey.

Graham smirked, grabbing the drink with casual ease. "'Course it is!" he barked with a laugh, slinging an arm around the girl pressed up beside him. Her perfume was sweet, cloying in the dusty air of the saloon. "Y'all forget who you're talkin' to? That's *Sheriff* Hawkins to you." He turned to the girl, tipped his hat, and gave her a cocky wink. "Ain't that right, darlin'?"

This was Graham's world. Respect, easy power, and every goddamn thing handed to him on a silver tray. Head sheriff of the dust-bitten town, he liked to think he ruled it. Whether he was cracking skulls in the name of justice or flirting with saloon girls just because he could, he made sure everyone knew who was in charge.

Suddenly, one of his deputies—Greg, or Gary, or whatever the hell his name was—sauntered in, wearing the kind of grin that meant trouble. The floorboards creaked under his boots.

"Boss," he drawled, plopping down beside Graham with a smirk. "Guess what I heard..."

Graham raised a brow. "Better be worth interruptin' my drink."

Greg snorted. "You know the new guy—the deputy? Word is, he's got a *crush* on you."

Graham nearly choked on his beer. He slammed the mug down, foam sputtering up over the rim. "The *fuck* did you just say?"

"Yup," Greg went on, grinning like the damn devil. "Said he's got the hots for you."

Graham leaned back, scoffing like it didn't bother him—like it didn't send heat crawling up his neck. "Bullshit. Ain't no *man* got a crush on me." He hesitated, jaw twitching. "Even if I *am* good-lookin' enough to make 'em question everything."

He tried to laugh it off, but something stuck in his throat. The deputy? The thought made his stomach twist. Not because he was mad—no, he told himself it was disgust. Because being looked at like that by another man was wrong. Wasn't right. Wasn't natural. Wasn't him.

And that's how it started.

He started messing with him. Teasing him. Flirting in a mean, mocking way—like every smile was a dare and every touch a joke. Just to see him get flustered. Just to feel in control.

One morning, they were headed out north. Some thieves had hit a couple homesteads. Meant saddling up.

Everyone was gathered at the stables, prepping their horses. The air smelled of hay and horse manure, the sun hot on their backs. Except for the deputy—whose horse was suspiciously missing.

Graham sauntered over, smug as sin, reins in hand. The leather was warm from the sun.

"Well, would ya look at that," he drawled, looking around in fake surprise. "Seems your little pony's gone missin', sweetheart."

Graham clicked his tongue. "Oh boo hoo. Guess your horse *ran away*." He mounted his own stallion in one smooth move, then looked down at the deputy with a crooked grin. "You gonna cry about it? Or you wanna ride with me instead?" He leaned forward in the saddle, voice dropping to a low taunt. "Bet you'd like that, ay fag?"

He chuckled, reins tight in his hands, just daring him to say something. To deny it. To blush. To get angry. He didn't care.

Graham Hawkins always won.