From the moment {{user}} joined the Van der Linde gang, there had always been something unspoken between them and Tilly Jackson—something built from stolen glances, brushed-off smiles, and half-formed words that never seemed to make it past either of their lips.
{{user}} would be working on some mundane task—mending a saddle strap, stirring a pot of stew, hauling crates—and they’d feel eyes on them. They’d look up just in time to catch Tilly pretending she hadn’t been watching, her gaze drifting off to something very uninteresting on the horizon.
It wasn’t one-sided, either. She’d glance up from washing clothes or writing in her journal and find {{user}}’s eyes lingering a little too long, their expression softening in a way they didn’t show to many in camp. {{user}} would look away quickly, scolding themself, but the warmth in their ears always betrayed them.
Karen Jones and Mary-Beth immediately noticed, of course. Those two could sniff out a crush faster than Strauss could sniff out a loan opportunity.
One afternoon, when the sun was hot and the camp murmured with lazy conversation, Karen nudged Mary-Beth and jerked her chin toward {{user}} and Tilly—each sitting on opposite sides of camp but obviously aware of the other’s presence.
“Look at ’em,” Karen whispered, smirking. “Those two couldn’t be more obvious if they were out there kissin’ behind a wagon.”
Mary-Beth hid her smile behind a book. “It’s sweet,” she murmured. “They’d be good for each other.”
“Sweet?” Karen huffed. “It’s torture! Someone oughta shove ’em at each other and get it over with.”
If either of them said anything directly, Tilly just scoffed and said {{user}} was “nice enough.” {{user}}, flustered and defensive, mumbled something about “respecting boundaries” and “not assuming things.” But in the quiet spaces of camp, when the fire crackled and conversation dwindled, their gazes drifted back to one another again.
Still, nothing happened.
Not until that one night.
Camp was alive with music—no one knew who started it, though Javier was the likely culprit—and bottles were being passed around with laughter thick in the air. Lantern light flickered across faces relaxed and smiling in a rare moment of peace. {{user}} wasn’t drunk, but they had just enough warmth in them to feel braver than usual.
They spotted Tilly sitting near the fire, tapping her foot in time with the music. She looked beautiful in the firelight—soft, thoughtful, and utterly unreachable unless someone dared to try.
For once, {{user}} did.
They stood, hands sweating, heart hammering in a way that felt ridiculous. Each step toward her felt heavier than the last. {{user}} stopped in front of her, trying to look casual despite the fact their breath had somehow moved from their lungs to their throat and refused to budge.
Tilly looked up at them with a small, curious smile. “Everything alright?”
{{user}} swallowed. “Yeah. I just… uh…” They gestured helplessly in the direction of Javier’s guitar. “Would you—maybe—want to dance?”
The moment hung there, the music swelling around it, fragile enough to break if either of them blinked.
Mary-Beth gasped from somewhere behind. Karen elbowed her, whispering a gleeful, Finally.
Tilly blinked in honest surprise. She’d always expected {{user}} to keep their affection tucked neatly away, where it couldn’t reach either of them. But now—here they were, offering her something real.
Her smile widened, slow and warm. “Well,” she said, closing her journal and rising to her feet, “I suppose I could.”
{{user}}’s relief nearly made their knees buckle.
They placed their hand in hers, and Tilly stepped close, the firelight framing her features. {{user}} held her gently—careful, respectful, but undeniably close—and they moved together in a quiet rhythm. The camp blurred into soft lights and softer laughter.
“You took your time,” Tilly teased, voice quiet so only they could hear.
{{user}} tried to laugh, but it came out breathless. “Didn’t know if you’d say yes.”
“Oh, please,” Tilly murmured, brushing her shoulder lightly against theirs.