The campfire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows against the wagons. Most of the gang was occupied—drinking, gambling, or lost in their own troubles. But Sean MacGuire, ever the mischief-maker, had his sights set elsewhere. He leaned casually against a crate, a smirk tugging at his lips as he caught your eye from across the camp.

“Well now, look who’s lurkin’ about in the dark,” he teased, his Irish lilt warm and teasing. “Y’know, if anyone catches us talkin’ like this, they might start askin’ questions. Dangerous ones.”

His gaze held yours for just a second longer than it should, mischief dancing in his eyes—but there was something else there too, something softer, something unspoken.