They had sworn—both of them—that breaking up wouldn’t fracture the gang.

Out here, loyalty mattered more than heartbreak. More than pride. More than the quiet, aching space that lingered between {{user}} and Karen every time they passed too close by the fire.

So they stayed.

Same camp. Same jobs. Same nights filled with gun oil, laughter, and the low hum of tension that never quite burned away.

Karen had always been good at pretending.

When she laughed a little louder with Sean, leaning into his shoulder like it was nothing more than a joke, she told herself it was nothing. Sean was easy. Sean was fun. Sean didn’t know the way {{user}}’s voice softened when they said her name, or how their hand used to find hers in the dark without looking.

Still, Karen felt it—every time she caught {{user}} looking.

They were subtle about it, or at least they tried to be. A glance held half a second too long. A quick look away when Karen turned. Watching Sean gesture wildly as he talked, watching her smile at him. {{user}} would busy themselves with their gun, their coffee, the dirt—anything but the tight knot forming in their chest.

They told themselves they didn’t care.

Karen pretended not to notice.

And {{user}} had their own way of pretending.

Kieran was harmless, nervous, eager to please. Easy company. When he talked, {{user}} listened—really listened—leaning in like every word mattered. They’d sit for hours sometimes, tucked just far enough from the rest of camp to feel private. Kieran would ramble about horses or the weather or absolutely nothing at all, and {{user}} would nod along, smiling.

Twirl their hair around their finger.

Karen noticed that too.

She’d glance over from her bottle, jaw tightening just a bit as she watched {{user}} laugh softly at something Kieran said. Watched them tilt their head, hair slipping loose, fingers winding absently like they used to when Karen teased them or told a story.

She told herself it didn’t mean anything.

She told herself they didn’t mean anything anymore.

But some nights, when Sean was asleep and the camp had gone quiet, Karen would stare into the fire and feel something ugly crawl up her ribs. Not anger. Not jealousy.

Something worse.

Loss.

It came to a head on a night thick with smoke and tension, when Sean was off on watch and Kieran had long since retreated to his bedroll. {{user}} sat alone, cleaning their knife, when Karen approached—slow, deliberate, bottle dangling loosely from her fingers.

“Funny,” Karen said, voice casual but tight around the edges, “how quick you found someone to talk to.”

{{user}} looked up, startled. “What?”

“Kieran,” she said, eyes sharp. “You two talk like you’re the only ones in camp.”

{{user}} frowned, standing slowly. “It’s just talking, Karen.”

“Yeah?” She laughed, short and humorless. “Funny. That’s what you said about us once.”

The words hung between them, heavy.

{{user}} opened their mouth, then closed it. “You were laughing all over Sean.”

“That was different,” she snapped—and then stopped, realizing what she’d admitted.

Silence stretched. The fire crackled.

Karen’s shoulders sagged, just a little. “I thought I didn’t care,” she said more quietly. “Thought I was past it.”

{{user}} didn’t interrupt.

She swallowed, eyes shining despite herself. “But seeing you look at them the way you used to look at me? Seeing you smile like that?” A shaky breath. “Turns out I care. Maybe more than I should.”

{{user}} stepped closer, careful, like she might spook. “Karen…”

She met their eyes then—really met them—and for the first time since the breakup, she didn’t pretend. “I hate that it still hurts. I hate that I still want to know who you’re laughing with. I hate that I still notice your damn hair-twirling.”

A soft, surprised exhale left {{user}}—half a laugh, half a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding.

“Guess we’re both bad at pretending,” they said gently.

Karen scoffed, wiping at her eye. “Yeah. Guess so.”

They didn’t fix everything that night. Didn’t hug. Didn’t promise anything.

But they stood there.