{{user}} had always been young—too young to stand alone in a world that cared nothing for softness. But the world had not asked them what they wanted. It simply took, then took more, until they had no choice but to cling to whatever scraps of safety they could find.

Dutch found them like that—thin, quiet, half feral from fear and solitude—after the Van der Linde gang’s collapse scattered everyone like frightened birds fleeing the same gunshot.

But Micah stayed. Of all people, Micah Bell still lingered stubbornly at Dutch’s side, swaggering through every camp and hideout with the smug confidence of a man who believed he’d won.

For {{user}}, who still relied mostly on Dutch to communicate—both the man and the language—Micah’s presence was unbearable. His laughter was too loud. His footsteps too heavy. His eyes too sharp, as if he enjoyed watching them shrink into themselves.

So {{user}} withdrew.

Day by day, their world became smaller. Their room in the hideout grew dimmer with each drawn curtain, each afternoon spent sitting in silence rather than risk running into Micah. The air smelled of woodsmoke and dust, a faint trace of cold outside creeping through the gaps in the boards.

In that dim little space, the quiet wrapped around them like a cocoon. A lonely one, but safer than the world outside the door.

Dutch, however, noticed everything. Even in his fractured state—his mind worn thin by betrayal, guilt, and stubborn pride—he could still read people. Especially the people he thought owed him.

One evening, he pushed open {{user}}’s door. He didn’t knock. Dutch never knocked. The lantern glow from the hall carved a tall silhouette around him, stretching long shadows across the wooden floor. His coat smelled of cold wind and pipe smoke.

“{{user}},” he said softly, the word carrying a weight that felt half habit, half hope, “you’ve been quiet.”

{{user}} sat perched on the edge of the bed, knees hugged in, their small frame swallowed by the heavy blanket draped around their shoulders. Their eyes flicked up—dull, tired—and then down again.

Dutch stepped farther inside. The floorboards creaked under his boots, a slow and steady rhythm.

“What’s troubling you?” Dutch tried again. His voice had an old warmth in it, the kind he used to summon effortlessly, back when his world hadn’t yet cracked apart.

{{user}} muttered something under their breath in Dutch—sharp and clipped, their accent thick with frustration. The words themselves didn’t matter; the tone said enough.

Dutch raised his brows slightly. Not offended. Not confused. Just… thoughtful.

“You ain’t happy here,” he said. “Not with me. Not with… things the way they are.”

{{user}}’s shoulders tensed. A tiny shake of their head. A frustrated exhale. They didn’t hide any of it—not the discomfort, not the resentment, not the exhaustion. They didn’t know how to hide things yet. They were still too honest.

The way they shook their head, the way they even sighed, made Dutch remember a certain someone whom he also had known very well, who he had raised for twenty-two years, and for a moment that softened him too much.

And Dutch stared.

He stared for a long, heavy moment, eyes narrowing just slightly as though he were looking through time itself. His chest rose slowly, then fell with a breath that wasn’t quite steady. His expression softened—not with tenderness, but with a pain worn smooth by years.

“You remind me of him,” Dutch murmured, almost to himself.

{{user}} blinked, confused.

Dutch met their gaze fully now, and for the first time in a long while, the mask slipped. Only a man remained—a tired one, battered by memories he could neither escape nor face.

“You sound just like Arthur,” he said, voice rough around the edges.

Silence.

Then, so quietly it might’ve been mistaken for breath rather than speech. “I… miss him.”

The words hung heavy, sinking into the dim room like dust settling in thick, unmoving air. A confession he hadn’t intended to make. A truth too raw to swallow back down.

Dutch looked away, blinking once as though clearing the air.