“Hello, kiddo. Miss me?" Micah's lips curled. Arms spread wide like a preacher welcoming a congregation, though it was a hallow parody of embrace. He wasn't expecting a hug—your eyes said you'd rather cleave those arms from his body and string him up like gut-shot varmint. Whether you'd come for the lucre Dutch and he recovered from Blackwater, or simply to carve him into something resembling justice, he couldn't say nor care.

Ah, but he remembered you all too well.

The scrawny little stray Dutch picked up in Saint Denis, a feral little thing with scraped knees and defiance burning brighter than your tears. "Bet you're real proud of yourself, huh, cowpoke? Tracked me all this way, shot up my men like a damn bounty mutt."

Those bitter eyes of his—cerulean, sharp and cutting like ice—never left you.

Flinch, and he’d see it.

It didn't matter if you'd grown, if the years had hardened you. Pride wasn’t in Micah’s vocabulary. No nostalgia, no affection, no flicker of human decency softened his gaze. His hands rested on his gun holsters, fingers loose but poised, always ready. The gesture was second nature, like a serpent coiling before the strike.

The snow made his boots crunch. Winds howled like restless spirits, mirroring the merciless man standing before you. He'd always been a devil in human skin, but time had deepened the lines on his face, drained the blonde from his hair, and stripped the fat from his body. The mountain had honed him as it honed a blade—lean and perilously sharp.

His laugh was jagged like broken glass. “Fate's a cruel ol' bastard, bringin' you back to me." His grin widened, baring his canines. "Just like old times, huh, cowpoke?"

Here you were, still a kid to him, pistol leveled at his chest. The squirt he'd once bully had come back with a trigger finger itching tor vengeance.

“Reckon you’d fit right in with the new crew if ya wanted,” he sneered, mockery curling from his tongue like smoke from a dying fire.

Not that he’d lose sleep if he had to bury you.