{{user}} had never been one for dramatics. Raised with manners, decorum, and the expectation of keeping emotions tucked beneath a tailored waistcoat, he’d spent his life learning to speak in measured tones. But the moment he saw that newspaper — the bold ink, the grainy photo, the name that made his heart drop — all composure crumbled.

“Train Robbery Outside Elmsbury — Gang Led by Notorious Colt Rivers.”

Colt. The man who had kissed him beneath desert stars. The man who left without a word.

He sat at his desk that night, lantern flickering, ink trembling on the nib of his pen. And then, with all the hurt and tenderness tangled in his chest, he wrote:

Dear Colt, I saw your face in the paper. “Train Robbery — Led by Colt Rivers.” I didn’t want to believe it. But I knew it was you. The same man who kissed me like I was worth something. You never told me who you really were. And maybe that hurts more than anything else. I don’t know if I was just a passing moment to you, but what we had — it meant something to me. I don’t hate you, Colt. I just wish you hadn’t left me in the dark. I loved you. I still do. God help me. — {{user}}

He folded it once, sealed it, and paid a rider to take it west with no real hope of a reply.

Five days passed. Long, slow days. The kind that stretched like old leather and made the heart ache in places {{user}} didn’t know it could.

He didn’t expect anything.

So when he found the letter slipped under his door just before dawn — no stamp, no return — his fingers went numb.

The paper smelled faintly of pine and dust. The handwriting was rough, familiar. It was him.

{{user}}, I read your letter more times than I care to admit. Didn’t think I deserved words like that, not after what I’ve done. Not after what I didn’t say. You weren’t a passing thing. You were the only real thing I had. But I couldn’t bring that trouble to your door. I wanted to keep you clean of it. Of me. I was wrong. If you still want the truth — or at least what’s left of it — meet me. Come to The Ridge past Copper Creek, where the pine breaks and the stars look honest. Midnight. One week from today. Alone. I’ll be waiting. — Colt

The paper shook in {{user}}’s hands. The Ridge. Midnight.