The campfire crackled softly under the weight of the cold night. The gang was scattered across the camp, some laughing, others muttering, while you sat quietly by the wagon, knees pulled up to your chest. The night sky, vast and speckled with stars, was a stark contrast to the heaviness in your heart.

Micah had done it again—shouted, insulted, treated you like less than a person. His words had bitten, leaving bruises far deeper than any wound ever could.

You clenched your fists, trying to will away the tears threatening to spill. This was supposed to be your family, your haven.

But how could it be, when the one person meant to protect you treated you like dirt beneath his boots?

It was then you heard the slow, deliberate crunch of boots on gravel.

You didn't have to look up to know who it was. It was Dutch.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked softly, his voice rich and calm, as though he could sense the storm inside you.

You nodded, unable to find the words. He lowered himself beside you, his movements unhurried. He didn’t speak right away, didn’t press you.

Instead, he pulled a cigar from his pocket, lighting it with a quiet patience that made you feel, for once, like you weren’t being rushed or judged.

"You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders," he finally said, exhaling a thin plume of smoke. His dark eyes flicked to yours, sharp and knowing.

You hesitated, swallowing down the knot in your throat. "It’s Micah," you admitted in a whisper.

Dutch’s jaw tightened, the flicker of anger behind his gaze almost imperceptible, but you caught it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he let the silence stretch, considering his words carefully.

"You don’t deserve that," he said finally, his tone low but firm.

"I don’t understand why you’re still with that fool. There are so many men out there. Men who could treat you so much better, the way you deserve..” he reached out and pulled a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Why him, {{user}}?”