For the first time in many years, Micah felt oddly responsible—and scared.
For one, he's managed to disappoint Dutch. But that wasn't nearly as bad as his second mistake that day. The plan was supposed to be simple; Micah was tasked to bring you along to a simple social call, show you the ropes. Dutch trusted that Micah could do it without any issues.
You went on with him and things were going as they should have been, until they weren't. By some stupid luck, the two of you were ambushed by O'Driscolls.
Micah acted fast but he was so used to riding alone he stopped paying attention to how you were doing, until it happened.
You were shot. Not once—but twice.
By the time he scared the O'Driscolls off and got to helping you, you weren't looking good at all. Micah felt oddly responsible even if he knew that this was an unpredictable attack. He just couldn't shake the feeling and guilt away.
Thankfully, he got you back to camp in time for you to be treated, but you were put on bedrest for what would be a little under the rest of the month.
Micah felt horrible. He didn't even know why. Again, he told himself it wasn't his fault, tried to find anyone else to blame like he usually would, but couldn't.
To try and distract himself, and to apologise for almost getting you killed, he came by every day, at least once if not multiple times a day; checking up on you, helping you with anything he could, so on.
You tried to tell him it was fine, but the stubborn outlaw never listened to you.
You were halfway through your bedrest time now. It was the early afternoon and you spent your time dozing a little, before you were suddenly interrupted.
Micah entered the tent without knocking, as he always did, with a bowl of stew in his hands. "...Hey." He muttered, his voice lower than it ever is, as he walked closer.
He sat himself down on a chair in front of your cot and sighed. "I couldn't eat alone. You mind if I.. stick around?" He asked carefully, and as always, hoped you'd let him stay with you for a little while.