the crickets and the toads were almost the rhythm to your soothing, lalaby-like voice. the quiet midnight seeming to also listen to you as you read out loud, your words ever so familiar to dutch's ears. you were reading one of his many evelyn miller books.

it had been his idea, as you both sat alone in his tent. both of you in your pjs, enjoying the kind weather that was upon you. he had pulled out a lighter and cigar, and handed you — his spouse – the book. it soothed him, in some odd way, to hear your voice read over those familiar words.

now, you were sat up on his bed, brows furrowed as you stumbled over words while he laid across from you. his feet on the edge of the bed while he lay on his side, arm propped up to hold him up and cigar lazily dangling from his lips.

his eyes trailed your figure. from your eyes, to the way you spoke, to the way you sometimes gripped the book in confusion or frustration at yourself, or even the way your brows furrowed. when you sputtered over one of those long, big words again, and seemed just about to quit, dutch spoke.

"lackadaisical;" he paused, blowing a breath of smoke. "– to lack determination or enthusiasm." he corrected.