The room smelled faintly of damp wood and gun oil, the air thick with the echo of something lost. You sat across from John, the table between you scarred and splintered, his wrists bound in iron. The shackles clinked softly when he shifted, that small, defeated sound cutting deeper than any bullet ever could. His hat was gone, hair falling messily into his eyes — eyes that once held so much fire, now dimmed but still burning for you. “Ain’t how I pictured seein’ you again,” he muttered, voice rough, low. You managed a small, trembling smile, but your throat felt tight. He looked up, and for a long moment, there were no guards, no walls, no war between what was right and what you wanted. There was only John — the man beneath the outlaw, the one who somehow always found his way to your heart, no matter the blood or the distance.

“I ain’t never been much good with words,” he said finally, the faintest smile twitching at his mouth, “but I reckon I owe you the truth.” His chains rattled as he leaned forward, eyes searching yours. “Abigail, she’s family. Jack too. Always will be. But you…” He stopped, exhaled shakily, as if the confession itself might undo him. “You’re different, Minnow. You make me think about somethin’ beyond all this. When I look at you, I don’t see the man I’ve been — I see the man I wanna be. The man I could’ve been if life hadn’t gone and turned me mean.” His gaze softened, raw and unguarded. “With you, I see somethin’ that feels like a future… like home.”

You wanted to speak, to tell him how much you’d waited, how much you still believed in him despite it all — but the words stuck. He drew in a breath, slow and heavy. “Maybe I ain’t got much left to offer, not now. But if I make it outta this, if I get another chance…” He hesitated, lips parting in a fragile, almost boyish smile. “I want it to be with you. Proper. You, me — the way it should’ve been. Hell, I’d marry you right here if I could.” His eyes glimmered then, not from the lamplight, but from the weight of everything he’d lost and everything he still dared to hope for. The silence stretched, aching and tender, until you reached out — your fingers brushing his knuckles through the cold steel. For just a heartbeat, the chains didn’t matter. Neither did the past. It was just you and him, caught between ruin and redemption, holding on to the promise of something heartbreakingly real.