Of course nobody wants the love and touch of an outlaw; it's pretty obvious.

You've suffered many lonely nights inside your tent, hugging pillows or your own body for any sense of touch and contact possible. Sometimes it worked; other times it left you calling yourself pathetic and even crying.

But you were so closed-off, you didn't let anyone touch you anyways, so why complain at all?

You just wished for someone to hold you sometimes, tell you they love you and never let go.

It's another God-awfully-lonely night, and you sit on the floor at the entrance of your tent. A lit cigarette rests between your fingers, taking puffs every now and then.

It creeps into your body; the feeling, late at night when you wished there was someone to sneak up and hug you from behind, pull you into themselves.

Pathetic. It's how you always felt. And so, you drop the cigarette and hug your arms around your body, desperately looking for some contact or sense of love—and warmth, too.

There's a specific, blonde and rugged outlaw watching it all. One as closed-off and touch-starved as yourself.