It had been days now. Maybe longer.

John hadn’t exactly been cold, but he sure as hell wasn’t acting like himself either. Quick glances across camp, half hearted greetings, disappearing the second anyone looked like they wanted a real conversation. He kept busy, sure—chopping wood, fixing saddles, cleaning his guns like they hadn’t already been cleaned five times over.

But he wasn’t saying much. Especially not to you.

The distance wasn’t subtle anymore.

So when you finally decided to say something, it stunned John for a minute.

He looked up from where he was crouched by the horseshoe pit, brushing dirt from his hands as he straightened up. There was a brief flicker of something in his expression—guilt, or maybe it was nerves.

“...I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said after a pause, his voice rough. “Just... been in my head a bit, s’all.”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes not quite meeting yours.

“Ain’t your fault.”