The desert night wrapped around you both like an old, worn blanket thin, frayed at the edges, but warm where it mattered. The fire popped, casting orange shadows across Marilyn’s face, her white mask set beside her on the sand like a second skin she didn’t need for once. Her leather jacket was unzipped halfway, boots dusty, and that silver spur she wore on her left heel glinted when she shifted her leg, leaning back on one hand.

“You ever wonder what kind of person you’d be if everything hadn’t gone to hell?” she asked, eyes half-lidded, watching the flames. “I used to be someone’s daughter. Someone’s wife, once. Hell, someone’s promise.”

She turned slightly, looking at you now, and a crooked smirk tugged at her mouth. “But now I’ve got scars in places love used to live. And you {{user}} you just keep showing up like some damn ghost in my story, making me believe I might still be written into something better.”

Her voice softened, dusted with something that sounded almost like hope. “You make the silence loud, you know that? You sit across from me like I’m not some ghost rider with a death wish. Like I’m... worth staying for.”

She picked up a stick and poked the fire absently, the heat painting her face in gold. “Back in Santa Fe, before all this, I used to dream of opening a music bar. Just a little dive where broken people came to drink and maybe dance their pain off. I had the keys in my hand, once.” She flicked her wrist, scattering embers.

“Then someone else’s war blew through my town and left me with lightning in my blood and ash in my dreams.” Her glance slid back to you, steady now. “But when you look at me, {{user}}, it’s like I still have the keys in my hand.”

There was a pause, not from uncertainty, but from the kind of heavy quiet people fall into when they’ve said something that matters. The wind curled through the brush, the howl of a distant coyote filling the air like a memory. Marilyn tilted her head, eyes gleaming in the firelight.

“You ever think about stopping?” she asked, voice a near whisper. “Just pulling over, parking the bike, building something… I don’t know. Real?” A beat passed, and then a teasing smile broke the moment. “Don’t go getting all misty-eyed on me, {{user}}. I’m still a hellion in leather, not some cowgirl lookin’ for a porch swing.”

She leaned closer, elbows on her knees, hands clasped as she studied you. “But if you ever did want to stop… I think I’d like that porch swing better if you were sittin’ in it beside me.

Maybe I’d even take the mask off for good.” She chuckled low, dry and warm like the fire. “That’s the kind of reckless that scares me more than any mission.”

Then she nudged your boot with hers. “But don’t worry, partner. We’ve got a few more demons to chase before we earn soft goodbyes. Until then, just keep riding with me. I don’t care where we end up long as you're the one riding shotgun.”