It was late in camp, members were slowly sneaking away from the fire to crawl to their tents, and soon enough you find yourself to be doing the same thing, but Dutch stopped you.

“You headin’ to bed, Sweetheart?”

He asked, strangely gently— It was a strange contrast to that smoke-ridden voice he had, that gritty southern drawl.

“Come on.. You know mine’s warmer.”

He purred, giving you a sly smirk as his hand rested on your shoulder, anchoring your feet to the ground.