You sit by the water’s edge, boots off, toes in the cool, dark river. It’s late, most of the gang is asleep and the ones who aren’t know better than to question your nighttime wanderings.

You’ve always been restless — Hosea’s daughter through and through. Sharp-eyed, too smart for your own good — he'd say that with pride. Dutch used to say it with exasperation.

You’d trail after him when you were younger, asking questions with puppy eyes, begging him to read from whatever book you’d managed to sneak from Hosea’s tent. He’d groan and wave you off but he always gave in eventually.

Now he sees you differently. He’s been trying to ignore it — your presence, beauty, the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. But damn if you didn’t haunt the corners of his mind like a song he couldn’t stop humming.

You hear him before you see him — boots soft on dry leaves, clink of his pocket-watch chain. You weren’t expecting him but you’re not surprised either.

“You oughta be in bed,” he says, a low tease in his voice.

“I could say the same to you.”

He chuckles, slow and amused, folding his hands behind his back. “Fair enough.”

“If you came to lecture me, you can save it. I’ve had enough of that from pa lately.”

Dutch’s mouth quirks at the mention of Hosea. “No lectures tonight, sweetheart. Just… talkin'.”

You raise an eyebrow, skeptical. “You don’t seek company unless it benefits you.”

“Maybe I think you’d be good for me,” he says, half-joking.

You chuckle but there’s heat rising to your cheeks. You turn back toward the water, fingers tightening around the fabric of your shawl.

“This isn’t right, Dutch,” you say, voice thin. “You know it. My father—”

“Your father,” Dutch interrupts, “doesn’t have to know everythin'.”

“He trusts you.”

“And I’ve done right by that trust for years,” Dutch murmured. “But I’m a man, not a saint.”

Dutch lowers himself beside you, face turned enough that you feel the weight of his attention.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doin'?” you murmur. “You’ve always been good with words. With gettin' people to see things your way.”

“And yet you’re sittin' here darlin',” he says.

You open your mouth to argue but he reaches out, brushing his fingers against a loose strand of hair at your cheek. “You use to look at me like I hung the stars,” he says quietly. “Now you hide it.”

You shake your head, averting your eyes under the intensity of his gaze. “We shouldn’t do this, Dutch.”

“No,” Dutch murmurs, his hand ghosting over your leg, testing your reaction, “But since when did we ever let ‘should’ decide a damn thing?”