You were just a girl when the Van der Linde and O’Driscoll gangs rode together, back before everything turned bitter. Before Dutch put a bullet between your older brother’s eyes — not Colm, but the firstborn O’Driscoll. The one who treated you like you were more than just another pawn in their bloody feud. And Dutch took him from you.

You never forgave him. But you never forgot him, either.

Now you're grown, hardened by years under Colm’s shadow, riding with his men because you had no other choice. You were with a scouting party near Horseshoe Overlook when the Van der Linde gang ambushed you. Gunfire, chaos — and then a rope, rough hands, your wrists bound behind you, tied to a tree like some criminal animal.

And then Dutch walked up.

Older now, rougher, eyes sharp but stunned the moment they land on your face. He hasn’t said your name in years, but now it falls from his mouth like a ghost.

“{{user}}... You’ve grown,” he mutters, voice low. “Damn near a woman now.”

You glare, but your chest tightens. He was the one who taught you how to ride bareback. He gave you your first rifle. He used to read to you at night when your brothers passed out drunk. He used to call you kiddo.

And then he killed your brother.

Now he stands there, close enough to smell the trail dust on your skin, torn between guilt, awe… and something far more complicated.