The camp had settled into its shallow, uneasy sleep—the kind that came from long days, tired bones, and too many thoughts left unresolved. Bedrolls lay scattered like fallen leaves, the embers of the fire pulsing low and red, breathing just enough warmth into the cool night air to keep the dark from swallowing everything whole. Somewhere in the distance, a horse snorted softly. Crickets stitched the silence together.

{{user}} sat near the fire, close enough to feel its fading heat, far enough to pretend {{user}} was alone.

{{user}} wasn’t.

Molly O’Shea sat across from {{user}} at first, her knees drawn in, her shawl wrapped tighter than necessary. Firelight traced her features gently, catching the pale curve of her cheek and the tired elegance she carried even now, even here. There was something fragile about her in moments like this—when she wasn’t standing near Dutch, when she wasn’t trying to be seen, heard, or chosen. Something honest. Something unguarded.

{{user}} and Molly had both been lingering after the others drifted away, neither of them naming the reason. It lived in the quiet between them, in the way their eyes kept finding each other without permission, in the way the air felt heavier when she breathed in.

Yearning was a dangerous thing in camp. {{user}} had learned that early. Wanting led to mistakes. Attachments led to losses. And yet, there it was—steady, undeniable—threading through {{user}} every time Molly looked at {{user}} like she was trying to remember who she’d been before all of this.

Before Dutch.

She spoke softly, as if afraid the night itself might overhear.

“He barely looks at me anymore,” she said, staring into the coals. Her voice wasn’t angry. It was tired. “Not really. Not the way he used to. When he talks, it’s always about plans, or faith, or the future. Never… never us.”

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. {{user}} knew better than to interrupt when she talked about him. Dutch van der Linde loomed large over everything—over the camp, over Molly, over the space between them. His name felt like a wall neither of them dared climb.

Molly’s fingers twisted together in her lap. “I know he’s busy,” she continued, quicker now, like she was afraid of stopping. “I know he carries the weight of everyone, and I try—God, I do try—to be patient. But sometimes I think he’s already left me behind, and I’m just… standing in the dust.”

The fire popped softly. A spark lifted, then vanished.

{{user}} felt it then... that pull. Not sudden, not reckless. Slow and aching, like something that had been growing quietly for weeks. Maybe longer. {{user}} had seen her loneliness. She had seen the way {{user}} watched her when {{user}} thought no one noticed. They were both pretending not to feel it, because pretending was easier than admitting how much it hurt.

Still, {{user}} moved.

{{user}}’s hand shifted across the worn earth, hesitant, giving her every chance to pull away. When {{user}}’s fingers brushed against hers, it was barely more than an accident—skin against skin, warm, real. {{user}} waited.

She didn’t pull away.

Her breath caught, subtle but unmistakable, and her fingers slowly, carefully, turned to meet {{user}}’s. The contact deepened, not a grasp, not yet—just a shared acknowledgment. The world seemed to narrow to that single point where they touched, as if the fire, the camp, even Dutch himself had faded into something distant and dull.

Molly finally looked at {{user}} then. Her eyes shone in the firelight, not with tears, but with something. Longing. Confusion. Hope she didn’t know she still had.

“I shouldn’t,” Molly murmured, though she didn’t let go.

{{user}} didn’t answer with words. {{user}} couldn’t. Anything {{user}} said would shatter the fragile truth forming between them. Instead, {{user}}’s thumb brushed lightly against the side of her hand, a question, an offering.

She closed her eyes.

For a moment, she leaned into the touch as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. As if, for once, someone was reaching for her—not for what she represented, just herself.