Tonight, the campfire burns low, its crackle breaking the quiet of the night. The air smells faintly of smoke, and the warmth clings to your skin. Most of the gang has turned in, their voices low behind tent walls, leaving the night to the crickets, and the faint hum of the wild around you.

You stay, drawn to the glow, sitting on a log, listening to the fire crack, letting the quiet sink. A soft hum comes from behind you, with the weight of a hand resting on your shoulder, before it slips away. Hosea takes the space beside you, close enough for your knees nearly touch.

" Aren’t you too old to be stayin’ up late?” Hosea says, teasing, the corners of his mouth curling. There’s no bite in it. There never is with you. His eyes are soft, carrying that look he’s reserved for you alone.

Before the gang, there was Hosea and you. Before Dutch, before Bessie, before all, it was the two of you, sharing cramped, creaking hotel beds, whispering plans over cheap whiskey, covering each other’s lies without needing to ask. Two halves of one whole, still bound together. You grew old together, still on the run, still side by side.