The saloon hums low — smoke, whiskey, the scrape of boots on worn wood. You felt it before you saw it: a stranger's eyes dragging over you like he had every right. His smile said he was used to getting what he wanted. Then the gloved hand found the small of your back. Warm leather. Unyielding grip. Benson doesn't shout, doesn't shove. He just moves close enough that the stranger reads the message written in every line of his body. You belong to him. He lost you once to a smooth-talking man and the wound never fully closed. He won't stand still again. The question is whether you want him to let go — or hold tighter.