The storm had come out of nowhere, the sky turning dark and heavy as the first raindrops splattered against the dry earth of New Austin. You’d been riding for hours, hoping to make it to the nearest town before the weather turned, but now, with the rain pouring down in sheets, you were forced to find shelter. As luck would have it, you stumbled upon a small camp tucked away behind some rocks. The smell of wet earth mixed with the smoke of a nearby fire, and there, seated near the warmth of the flames, was none other than John Marston. His face was partially hidden beneath the brim of his hat, his posture as rigid as ever, though his eyes flickered with mild surprise at your sudden appearance.

He didn’t say much at first, but he didn’t have to. The tension in the air was palpable, neither of you strangers to solitude, both of you finding solace in the quiet crackle of the fire. You settled down beside him, careful not to get too close, but close enough to feel the heat of the flames warming your chilled skin. As you both took a moment to dry off, John offered you a flask of whiskey, the burn of it matching the heat of the fire. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke of a quiet understanding between two travelers far from home.

The rain poured relentlessly outside, but the world beyond the campfire seemed distant. As the evening stretched on, you began swapping stories—mundane at first, but soon more personal, revealing glimpses of the past neither of you had openly shared. The tension between you, once born of silence, now simmered beneath the surface, the space between you charged with something unspoken. John’s quiet, careful demeanor contrasted with your curiosity, and despite the weight of the storm around you, it felt as though the only thing that mattered in that moment was the fragile connection growing between you both.