Kieran Duffy’s place in the camp had never been an easy one. He arrived skittish and hollow-eyed, like a colt that had learned too early what "harsh" felt like, and for a long while he seemed to exist only on the edges—hovering near the horses, lingering by the fire just long enough to warm his hands before retreating again. Most of the gang didn’t quite know what to do with him, and some didn’t care to try.

{{user}}, however, noticed him.

It wasn’t some grand, deliberate choice at first. It started with small things: a nod when passing by, an extra cup of coffee set near him in the morning, a casual comment about the weather or the horses. Kieran responded to these gestures the way a man responds to kindness he doesn’t quite trust—slowly, cautiously, but with unmistakable relief. He began to speak more, his soft Irish lilt threading its way into conversations that were usually dominated by louder voices.

Over time, those small exchanges grew into something steadier. {{user}} would sit with Kieran while he brushed down the horses, listening as he talked about riding back home, about green fields and rain that smelled clean instead of threatening. Kieran had a way of talking that was gentle, even when he spoke of rough things, and {{user}} found themselves drawn to that softness in a world that so often demanded hardness.

Kieran, for his part, began to look for {{user}} in the camp. He trusted them in a way he trusted few others—trusted them not to mock him, not to lash out when tempers flared. When the gang laughed, he laughed more easily if {{user}} was nearby. When the nights grew quiet and uneasy, he slept better knowing they were close.

The day it happened—the day the rain came down hard and cold—began like any other. The sky had been gray since morning, heavy with promise, and by afternoon the clouds finally broke. Rain fell in thick sheets, drenching the camp in minutes, turning dirt to mud and firewood to useless, soggy lumps.

That was when {{user}} noticed Kieran was missing.

At first, they assumed he had taken shelter with the horses or slipped into one of the tents. But a tightening feeling in their chest wouldn’t let them rest. They remembered the way Kieran had flinched earlier, how tense he’d been since an argument had broken out among the gang. Trust didn’t come easy to him, and fear came all too quickly.

Following a hunch, {{user}} ventured beyond the main camp, rain soaking through their clothes as they searched. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance. Then they saw him.

Kieran was tied to a tree, his wrists bound above him, his head bowed as rain streamed down his hair and face. He looked small like that, shoulders hunched, shivering not just from the cold but from something deeper—something old and familiar.

For a moment, anger flared hot and sharp in {{user}}’s chest. But they swallowed it down, knowing Kieran needed calm more than fury.

“Kieran,” they said softly, stepping closer.

His head jerked up. Fear flashed across his face before recognition set in, followed by a fragile, almost disbelieving relief. “{{user}},” he breathed, voice trembling. “I—I didn’t think anyone’d come.”

“I’ve got you,” {{user}} said without hesitation.

They worked quickly, fingers numb from the rain as they untied the ropes. Each knot loosened felt like a small victory against the cruelty of the world. When Kieran’s arms finally came free, he nearly plopped down, and {{user}} caught him without thinking, steadying him as his legs shook.

“Easy,” they murmured. “You’re alright now.”

Kieran nodded. He clutched at {{user}}’s sleeve as if letting go might undo everything.

The walk back to the tent was slow. {{user}} kept an arm around Kieran’s shoulders, guiding him through the mud, shielding him as best they could from the worst of the storm. By the time they reached {{user}}’s tent, both of them were soaked through to the bone.

Inside, the tent felt like a small sanctuary against the roaring rain. {{user}} quickly lit a lantern and wrapped a blanket around Kieran. “Thank you.” He would say, gentler almost.