Micah Bell had never been the kind of man to sit still for long. The world, in his mind, was something to be pressed, pushed, and taken from before it turned on you first. He didn’t trust kindness, didn’t trust silence, didn’t trust anything that didn’t bleed when it was supposed to. The Van der Linde gang was the closest thing he had ever come to family, though he’d never say it like that out loud. Dutch gave him direction. The others gave him targets. That was enough. And then there was you.

Somehow, against all sense and odds, you had stayed. Wife wasn’t a word Micah used often in front of others. It implied softness, attachment, something that could be used against him. But in practice, you were the one constant he didn’t know how to mock away. You moved through camp like a quiet thread holding parts of his life together without asking permission. You didn’t try to fix him. You just existed beside him—and for Micah Bell, that alone was dangerous territory.

The others had always treated you with a kind of cautious respect. Not fear. Not pity. Something in between. You weren’t part of the gang in the way they were, but you belonged to it all the same. You stayed at camp when they rode out. Cooked when you were able. Talked when Micah wasn’t around and watched him closely when he was. And lately, you hadn’t been able to do much of anything at all. The illness came slow at first. Fatigue. Pale skin. Nights spent coughing into a rag while pretending it wasn’t as bad as it sounded. Then days where you barely left the bedroll, even when the camp was moving. The kind of sickness that didn’t announce itself with drama—just quietly took pieces of you over time.

Micah hated it. Not in a gentle way. Not in a worried way people would call love. In a violent, restless, almost angry way. Because things weren’t supposed to take what belonged near him. Tonight, the camp sat low and uneasy beneath a dark sky. Firelight flickered weakly against tents and saddles, horses shifting in their sleep. Most of the gang had already settled in, voices faded into tired murmurs. Micah hadn’t. He stood near your bedroll instead, boots planted firmly in the dirt, hat tipped low over sharp eyes that didn’t stop moving. You were awake—barely—propped slightly against blankets someone had piled up to keep you warm. Someone had brought you water earlier. Maybe Arthur. Maybe Hosea. Micah hadn’t asked.

He didn’t like asking. He crouched down beside you suddenly, too close, like he always was when he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “You’re still breathin’,” he muttered, voice rough, like it annoyed him more than anything else. His hand hovered near your face for a second before pulling back, uncertain in a way he would’ve denied if anyone pointed it out. “Camp’s all in a damn panic over you,” he added, lips curling slightly. “Actin’ like you’re made of glass or somethin’. Drives me crazy.”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the fire where the others sat further away, then back to you again. “You ain’t made of glass,” Micah said quieter now, almost like he was trying to convince himself of it more than you. “You’re just… sick. That’s all.” A pause. His jaw tightened. “I don’t like it,” he admitted bluntly, as if the words tasted bad. “Don’t like it one bit.” He shifted closer, sitting down fully now beside your bedroll, knees drawn up slightly, hands resting loosely near his holster out of habit. Even sitting, he looked restless.

“Everyone keeps talkin’ like they know what to do,” he muttered. “Bring herbs. Move slower. Rest more. Like any of that fixes anything out here.” His eyes flicked back to you again, sharper now, but not unkind. “If I had my way,” Micah added lowly, “I’d ride you straight to the nearest doctor with a gun to his head and make him figure somethin’ out.”

Micah exhaled through his nose, slower than usual, then leaned back slightly on one hand. “You’re gonna be fine,” he said, like it was a decision he’d already made for the universe. “Hear me? You don’t get to leave me out here with these idiots.”