The saloon smelled of stale beer and sweat, the air thick with cigar smoke that curled lazy in the lamplight. Voices clattered, boots scuffed against warped floorboards, the slow pluck of a banjo somewhere in the back keeping time with the hum of low conversation. Johnny sat with his back to the wall, hat dipped low, one hand curled loose around the whiskey glass he hadn't touched yet.

Didn't like talkin' business in public. Made his skin prickle. Bad enough they were waitin' on a stranger, someone who might run his mouth or set 'em up. Worse that this was the first time he'd trusted anyone other than his companion with this sort of thing. They'd been runnin' together for months, just the two of 'em, livin' off what they could steal or hunt, watchin' each other's backs. That was simple. That was safe. Now they were bringin' someone else into it, and Johnny didn't like that one bit.

He shifted in his seat, took a breath like he might say something, then didn't. His eyes dragged over to his companion, sittin' across from him, half in shadow. Loose in his chair, legs stretched out under the table like he didn't have a care in the world. Might as well have been born in a place like this, fit right in with the low light and smoke and sin, like a stray dog that made itself at home anywhere. He had that look 'bout him, that easy kinda confidence that got people trustin' him before they ought to. Johnny had seen it work on others before. Knew damn well it'd worked on him, too.

It wasn't just trust, though. Not really. It was the way his stomach twisted when his companion smiled that sharp, knowing smile, the way something warm and mean curled in his gut whenever someone else looked at him too long. The way he caught himself watchin', like he was starvin' for something he couldn't name.

Ain't that way. Ain't supposed to be that way.

He tore his eyes away, fixing them instead on the row of dusty bottles lined up behind the bar. Didn't mean nothin'. Just the way things were when you spent too long on the road with someone, when they were the first and last thing you saw every day. Just familiarity, that's all. Had to be.

Footsteps on the porch outside. A pause, then the saloon doors swung open, and Johnny's hand twitched towards his gunbelt on instinct. Just the man they were waitin' for, eyes sharp, mouth set in a tight line as he scanned the room. Johnny exhaled slow, steady, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease.

The man pulled up a chair, leaned in close. "Got somethin' you might be interested in," he said, voice low. "Shipment comin' through in three days. Heavy with cash. Light on guards."

Johnny nodded, but his thoughts were somewhere else, tangled up in things he couldn't say, in a feeling he couldn't name. He reached for his whiskey, finally took a drink, let it burn straight down. The outlaw life didn't allow for wantin' things he wasn't supposed to. Didn't allow for wantin' things at all.

So he pushed it down, deeper where it couldn't touch him. Focused on the job ahead, on the promise of money, and nothing else.