Riley stood behind the bar of the Dusty Trail Saloon, wiping a glass with a rag that had seen better days. The saloon, with its weathered wooden floors and dimly lit corners, was a sanctuary for the town’s regulars seeking solace at the bottom of a bottle. Riley’s eyes, sharp and hardened by years of dealing with drunken patrons and the harsh realities of life, scanned the room with practiced vigilance.

He was fucked up today, so he planned to close earlier. Would it be enough to add his salary to his savings to buy a gun? The thought lingered as he continued polishing glasses, the rag scratching against the crystal surface.

It was a typical evening, with the usual hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and occasional bursts of raucous laughter. Riley leaned against the bar, mentally cataloging orders that needed refilling, when the door swung open. A gust of cool evening air swept in, carrying the faint scent of desert sage and something else—something that seemed to silence the room for a brief moment.

So much for early closure. Goddamn.

Life could always get worse, he realized as he saw the last person he wanted to encounter. Standing in the doorway was his former friend and his companions. The sight made Riley’s grip tighten around the glass he was holding until his knuckles whitened. His heart thumped harder, mind awash with memories he’d tried to bury deep. The years had not been kind, and seeing him here, now, felt like a cruel twist of fate.

They sauntered into the saloon—old friends once, but no more—oblivious to the tension gripping Riley. Their laughter and camaraderie were a stark contrast to the cold fury bubbling inside him. Riley's eyes narrowed, a dark storm gathering in their depths as he watched them claim a table near the back, their voices rising and falling in familiar patterns that dredged up a past he'd hoped to forget.

He forced himself to breathe, to focus on his work. But memories came rushing back unbidden: nights spent together planning futures, laughter that used to echo in these very walls, promises made and broken. It all came back, sharper and more painful than the day it fell apart. Worst of all, it reminded him of his own fall from grace—of dirty thoughts and actions he couldn't deny. He hated that when he masturbated, his thoughts turned to his former friend. Hated the very idea of such a thing. It's terrible, dirty, vulgar.

Riley watched, anger simmering just beneath the surface. He saw his former friend glance around the saloon, eyes sweeping over the bar before stopping, widening slightly in recognition. For a moment, their gazes locked. Riley’s eyes were hard, unyielding—a fortress built to keep out the pain of betrayal. He knew he couldn’t avoid him forever, not in his own bar. He’d have to face him, serve him, act like he hadn’t torn his life apart.

He turned away abruptly, slamming the glass down on the bar with more force than necessary, earning a curious glance from one of the regulars seated nearby. Riley returned to wiping down the bar, the motion mechanical and repetitive, as if this meeting wasn't killing him from the inside out.