Drinking in saloons was unnecessary, that's something you stood by. If there was alcohol in the comfort of camp, why risk going into town for drinks?

Nonetheless, the begging of a few camp acquaintances gets you to begrudgingly agree, and you set off along them.

The night is yet young, meaning that many people have already gathered around for a drink. You lean on the bar, alone as you watch Sean dance with Karen—Dutch with Molly. The only other person who came was Micah, who excused himself—by bluntly announcing he has to piss—to the bathroom a few minutes ago.

Your lonesome is broken up by a very drunk patron slobbering over you; pet names and cheesy compliments that make your face scrunch with cringe. It's when you get visibly uncomfortable with the patrons comments and jabs that a certain someone reacts and steps in.

A calloused hand ghosts around your lower back to your hip; your other pressed to his own. "You doin' good, honey? Who's your friend?" Micah‘s low voice asks, leaning down just slightly to match your height, icy blues staring you down apologetically for leaving you alone.

Micah wasn't one to step in like this, ever. He was rude and closed-off with everyone, yet here he was; pretending to be your boyfriend to drive the creep away.

You almost feel your stomach pool with a comforting heat at the soft and caring gesture from such a—usually very cold—man.