You were part of the gang of outlaws led by Dutch, living on the fringes of the law in an increasingly hostile world. It was 1895, and just a few months ago, a new member had joined the camp. Javier Escuella, a Mexican who had left his homeland behind under circumstances he barely spoke of. His English was rudimentary, halting, and while he managed to make himself understood, it wasn’t enough to stop him from frustrating you. Your patience with him was thin, and every mistake, every mispronounced word, seemed to ignite your irritation.

Javier, however, seemed to enjoy it. Every time you got angry at him, his dark eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, as if he relished the small battles between the two of you. And not just that—he went out of his way to provoke you, dropping absurd comments or questions just to see you frown and respond with sarcasm or exasperation.

It was one of those days. The sun barely filtered through the treetops, and the air smelled of campfire smoke. Javier had spent the entire morning following you around, throwing little jokes in his broken English. Your attempts to ignore him had failed miserably, and when you finally turned to confront him, it was he who took the lead.

Before you could say a word, Javier brought you closer to him with a firm movement, his hands grabbing your waist with his hands.

“What problem do you have with me, cariño?” he asked in a low, calm voice, each word wrapped in his unmistakable Mexican accent.

One of his hands slid slightly lower, resting against the small of your back. There was something in the way he looked at you—a mix of audacity and something deeper, something you couldn’t quite name but which made the air around you feel heavier.