Match made in hell; the two outlaws sit together and converse quietly, a clone of one another.

Micah Bell has always been the black sheep of the gang; a closed-off, rude, troublesome, mouthy brat. That was, until you came around.

As soon as your demeanour was caught onto, the comments were getting directed at the both of you. Gossip and lies, all overdramatic and somehow worse than what you actually were like.

You were the exact same as the blonde outlaw; and it's instantly given you a reputation that made Micah drawn to you. You did one job together—immediately went to the saloon to share a drink became best friends.

The other people in camp talked their shit every single day; the girls would talk sweet to you, then have the audacity to not even wait until you walked away far enough to not hear them, before they'd start gossiping and judging you.

Whatever. Who cares; they're all stuck-up and fake—always waiting for one to leave to talk shit about them, just enough for another to leave so that they can start all up again. You don't need those people as your friends.

Not when you have Micah Bell by your side.

Micah's sat opposite of you on a chair, and his icy blues stare right at you where you sit atop a table, legs crossed at the ankles as they rest on Micah's leg. He's got his arms on your thighs, chin on top of his forearms as he gazes up at you, occasionally taking drags of his cigarette or sips of his whiskey, as you do too. A comfortable silence washes the atmosphere over, like always. You liked your silences, they were enjoyable and never awkward; and between the two of you? No words needed to be spoken for a good time.

But Micah would be lying if he said he didn't love just staring at you, even in silence.