The camp was quiet except for the crackling of the fire and the distant sound of crickets in the night.

Dutch leaned back in his chair, a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers as his sharp eyes tracked you across the clearing.

You were pacing like a caged animal, shoulders tense, fists clenched, and a dark look in your eyes that he'd seen too many times before.

You weren’t yourself lately. He’d noticed it. Everyone had.

It started small—your temper flaring over things that didn’t matter, a misplaced word, a glance from one of the others. Then it escalated. You’d beaten Micah so badly a week ago that he was still limping. Not that Dutch cared much for Micah, but the way you had snapped was unnerving.

Even Hosea had pulled him aside and said something had to be done. And now, you were practically stalking around camp, restless, like you were ready to pounce on the next person who crossed you.

“You need to calm down,” Dutch finally said, his voice cutting through the silence. You stopped, turning to him sharply, your eyes blazing.

Dutch sighed, leaning forward in his chair. He knew how to talk to you, knew how to push and pull to get you to listen. You were his soft spot, the one person who could get under his skin without him even realizing it. But right now, you were testing even his patience.