The storm had rolled in just before dusk, swallowing saint denis in sheets of rain. As it raged outside and pattered the windows, you found yourself stumbling into a hotel room with Javier. His hands all over you, his breath hot on your skin, his moustache tickling your neck.

Everything was crumbling. The gang was restless, Dutch had seemingly lost it, his morals twisted and sending the gang into two sides.

Sides that divided you and Javier.

It was obvious Javier was siding with Dutch, the way he defended every action no matter how cruel, how he reminded the camp to have faith despite what you and Arthur tried to tell him.

Despite it all, you'd been circling each other for months. Flirtation layered over arguments, danger wrapped in teasing smiles, every brush of his hand against yours carrying a promise you refused to acknowledge. It was easier to tell yourself you had time. That life wasn’t as fragile as it felt.

But today had proved otherwise. Dutch’s temper, the Pinkertons closing in, the tension in camp taut enough to snap—it all weighed heavy in the air. and maybe that’s why you finally stopped pretending.

Maybe that’s why you didn’t pull away when Javier reached for your wrist to stop you from leaving the saloon. Maybe that's why you let him convince you the gang wouldn't notice you being gone for one night.

"Tell me..." His voice was soft, low, barely louder than the rain as he ran his thumb over your lip. "Is this real?"

The words hung between you, your silence forming a pit in his stomach. For once, there was nothing to hide behind. No bravado, no banter, no more chances to figure out what you felt. But how could you reassure him when you didn't even know what was true?