The camp had settled into one of its rare, tender lulls. Night pressed softly against the clearing, the trees standing like quiet sentinels while the campfire breathed and crackled at the center of it all. Embers drifted upward, glowing like fireflies before fading into the dark. Most of the gang had turned in, their voices gone, their presence reduced to the occasional cough or shifting bedroll. What remained was the fire, the stars—and Susan Grimshaw, sitting more at ease than anyone could remember seeing her.

Across from her sat {{user}}, boots stretched toward the warmth, posture relaxed in a way that spoke of familiarity rather than carelessness. This wasn’t a guarded moment stolen between camp duties or crises. This was old time reclaimed.

Susan’s laugh cut through the night—low, genuine, and unguarded. It was the kind of sound that would have startled anyone who didn’t know her well, the same woman who spent most days barking orders and keeping the camp from collapsing into chaos. But here, by the fire, her shoulders were loose, her hands wrapped around a tin cup more for comfort than necessity, eyes creased with amusement rather than concern.

“Do you remember,” Susan said, shaking her head as she chuckled, “when you thought it was a good idea to sneak out after curfew and nearly got us both taken alive by old Mr. Hargreeve?”

{{user}} smirked, the firelight catching the edge of their expression. “Nearly,” they corrected. “But we didn’t. And you were the one who dared me.”

Susan scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, but her smile lingered. “I dared you because I knew you’d do it. You always did. Head full of bad ideas and just enough charm to survive them.”

They shared a look then—one weighted with decades. Teenagehood felt impossibly far away most days, buried under responsibilities, regrets, and the hard road that had shaped them both. Yet here it was again, vivid as the sparks snapping in the fire. Back when Susan wasn’t Miss Grimshaw, the iron spine of a camp full of outlaws, and {{user}} wasn’t yet worn down by the years. Back when they were just two stubborn kids scraping by, clinging to each other through trouble like it was second nature.

The gossip came easily, slipping into the spaces between memories.

“Dutch still thinks no one notices the way he practices those speeches of his,” Susan muttered, leaning in slightly, voice conspiratorial. “Stands just far enough from everyone else so he can pretend it’s spontaneous.”

{{user}} snorted. “I noticed. Thought he was talking to the trees at first.”

Susan laughed again, this time louder, hand coming down on her knee. “Lord, don’t let him hear you say that. He’d turn it into a metaphor.”

They talked about everyone and no one at all—who was sweet on whom, who was pretending not to be scared, who Susan thought needed a sharper kick into responsibility. Yet even her sharper words lacked their usual bite. With {{user}}, there was no performance, no need to be the backbone of the camp. She didn’t have to be strong every second.

At one point, Susan fell quiet, staring into the fire. The flames reflected in her eyes, softening them.

“You know,” she said after a moment, voice lower now, “there ain’t many people left who remember me before all this. Before I had to be… this.”

{{user}} didn’t rush to fill the silence. They never had to with her.

Susan glanced over, meeting their gaze, and for just a heartbeat, the years peeled away. She looked younger—tired, yes, but content. Safe.

“That’s why I’m glad it’s you,” she continued, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Anyone else sees me laugh like this, they’d think I’d gone soft.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you have.”

She huffed. “Don’t push it.”

But there was no real heat in the warning. She nudged a stick into the fire, sparks blooming upward. “We’ve been through so much together, you and me. Funny thing is… it’s nights like this I remember most. Not the running. ”

The fire popped. Somewhere in the distance, a coyote called.

Susan leaned back slightly, exhaling, her rare contentment evident.