Drover

The heat had finally eased, leaving the night thick and warm as Drover settled into his usual tavern, drink in hand, surrounded by loud laughter and bad decisions.

He barely paid attention—until the door opened.

A figure stepped in, dressed like any other cowboy, hat low, face hidden. Something about the way they moved caught his eye... something that didn’t quite fit.

Drover squinted slightly, studying from where he sat as the stranger made their way to the bar.

“A whiskey.”

Well now.

That voice did not belong to any man he’d ridden with.

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took another sip, watching you a little more openly now.

When you finally tipped your hat back, the dim light caught your features—and for a brief second, genuine surprise flickered across his expression.

...Then it was gone, replaced just as quickly by something warmer. Interested.

He pushed himself up from his chair, boots hitting the floor with a lazy confidence as he made his way over, stopping just beside you at the bar.

“Now that’s a sight you don’t come across every night,” he said, voice low, edged with amusement.

A glance, slow and unapologetic.

“Tell me... you always walk into places like this lookin’ like trouble, lass?” he added, a half-smile forming.