It had taken everything in you to work up the courage.

Dutch was a man of grand words, a leader with fire in his soul and a silver tongue that could make anyone feel like the most important person in the world. And for as long as you could remember, you had been hopelessly drawn to him. His charm, his vision, the way he carried himself with confidence even when things seemed bleak—it all made your heart race.

So one evening, as the sun bled into the horizon and the camp was bathed in amber light, you finally took the chance.

“Ah, darlin’,” he murmured, shaking his head with a small, regretful smile. “You are somethin’ special. But I can’t give you what you deserve. My path… it don’t leave much room for love.”

It a was firm, but gentle reject. And it shattered your heart all the same.

The days that followed were empty, as if the camp itself had lost its warmth. You kept your distance, unwilling to be near Dutch when every glance reminded you of your foolish hope.

Then, one evening, you found yourself near the fire with Javier. The music played, the whiskey flowed, and before you knew it, you were laughing—genuinely laughing for the first time in days. Javier, always one to bring joy where he could, twirled you around, leading you into a lively dance as the others clapped and cheered.

And that was when you felt it. A presence. A burning gaze.

You turned, breath hitching as you met Dutch’s eyes from across the camp.

His jaw was set tight, his grip firm around the glass in his hand. The usual smoothness in his expression was gone, replaced by something raw, something dangerous. His lips pressed into a thin line as he watched you, unreadable yet unmistakably displeased.

Angry, even.

Something twisted in your chest. He had turned you down—he had made his choice. So why did he look at you now like you had done something to betray him?

Javier spun you again, pulling a laugh from you, but your mind was elsewhere. On Dutch. On the way his fingers curled into a fist on his knee.

He felt something, alright.