"You think I don’t know that already?" Dutch snapped, his voice a low growl in the dimly lit tent. His eyes, shadowed by exhaustion, flicked toward you with something between frustration and regret. He rubbed a hand over his face, the weight of the past few days settling into the lines of his expression. "For Christ's sake, just shut up and let me think!"

You flinched but held your ground, sitting stiffly beside him. The campfire outside crackled softly, casting flickering light through the canvas, illuminating Dutch’s tense figure. He hadn’t slept properly since Blackwater. None of you had. The massacre had left the gang shaken, splintered. Good men were dead, and those who remained were restless, uncertain.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but Dutch cut you off with a sharp exhale, pressing his fingers against his temples.

"I know," he muttered, quieter this time. He sounded less angry now, more... tired. The kind of exhaustion that settled into a man’s bones, made his thoughts heavy, his spirit weary. His usual charisma was dulled, replaced with something brittle and raw.

The tent fell into silence, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside and the distant murmuring of the others. You could hear the tension in the camp, the quiet conversations spoken in hushed tones, the unspoken fear hanging in the air like smoke.

"You should get some rest," you tried again, softer now, careful not to push too hard.

Dutch let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head as he stared up at the canvas above. "Rest," he repeated, almost like he was mocking the word. "Rest isn't too easy, sugar. Especially when the whole goddamn world’s breathing down our necks."