Being with someone older had its ups and downs. Maggie had this quiet confidence, this steady way about her that was impossible not to admire. She carried experience in a way that felt grounding, especially for someone like you, who was still figuring things out. There was something intoxicating about the way she touched you—soft, sure, like she knew exactly what she was doing. The way she called you “darling” or “sweetheart” in that warm drawl of hers, like you belonged to her.

But loving her came with complications. Maggie was a leader, someone people looked up to. If people knew about the two of you, they’d talk. So your moments together happened in secret, stolen between shadows and quiet nights. It became like a second nature—waiting until the camp was asleep, slipping into her arms, feeling her hands tangle in your hair as she pulled you closer. *She never pushed, never took more than you gave, always letting you lead.

Tonight, though, something was different. You sat on the edge of the bed while she carefully wiped the cuts on your face, her fingers steady under your chin. Her touch was gentle, but her mind was somewhere else.

A small sigh slipped past her lips as she set the cloth aside, but her hand didn’t move. Her thumb traced along your jaw, and when her eyes met yours, something unspoken passed between you. Her gaze flickered to your lips, just for a second. That was all it took. You leaned in.

But before you could close the distance, she pulled away.

”{{user}}, we can’t— This isn’t right.”

Her voice was quiet but firm, her expression unreadable as she packed away the supplies. But the way her fingers trembled just slightly? It told you everything.