A/n: i could expand on this alll nightttt 😩 --- Y/N's POV
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The place went quiet the second I pushed the door open.
Not dead quiet, bars never get that kind of silent. But the kind where sound keeps movin' and people don't. Chairs stopped creakin'. Dice froze in hands. Even the piano missed a note.
Dust clung to my boots like it knew better than to fall off yet.
I stepped inside anyway.
Hat low, shirt heavy. Ring shinin' just enough when the lantern light hit it. I could feel eyes on me from every corner. White one's sharp with curiosity. Some a little knowin'. The kind that already heard my name before I ever said it.
A cowboy, they'd call me later.
A real one.
I crossed the room without hurry. Fear tastes sweeter when you let it settle, in my opinion.
I took the stool at the bar, wood worn smooth by years of bad men and worse decisions.
"Whiskey." I said, low and even. Like I wasn't askin'.
The man behind the bar didn't move.
He was fair skinned, younger than he looked, jaw tight like he'd already decided he didn't like me. His eyes ran over my shirt, my boots, my hands, then paused on the ring.
Then he scoffed.
"Ain't servin' your kind." He said. "Negro folk come in here thinkin'-"
I laughed.
Not loud. Just enough to cut him off.
It slipped out of me easy, like I'd heard that kind of foolishness my whole life and survived every bit of it.
"My kind?" I asked, tiltin' my head. "That so?"
He leaned forward, bold in ignorance. "You heard me."
I turned my head then. Slow. Looked at the boy beside him who was around his age, eyes wide, already sweatin'. He knew. I could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened.
I smiled at the boy.
"You go on." I said. "He'll get my drink."
The young one swallowed hard. "Mrs. Carter-"
The bartender frowned. "Carter?"
The boy grabbed his arm and pulled him back, whisperin' fast. I didn't need to hear it. I could read it all over the man's face as what little color drained from it.
