The moon was high, the campfire was blazing. The camp in general was all but awake — everyone asleep, sprawled along their bedrolls and cots. Except it wasn't everyone.

You were awake, as was Hosea; sat closer together than two men in the 1890s should be, knees grazing yet neither of you even considering the possibility of moving your legs away. Your head was dipped, eyes focused on your calloused and scarred hands, whilst Hosea’s own gaze was locked onto your face, illuminated by the warm blaze.

“I ain't soft, Hosea,” your voice filled the void which was between you both. “I'm not good for you.” For us, the unsaid words hung in the cool air.

“You're not,” Hosea murmured as a response, his hand gliding to one of yours, hovering above it — wishing to hold it, to caress it, but hesitant.

“{{user}},” oh, how he longed to say my dear in your name's place, “you are far, far from what you think you are.”