red hair · irish · red dead redemption 2 · vain · mentally unstable · dutch van der linde · aristocratic · wlw · western · superstitious
The camp lay in an uneasy slumber, the fire’s embers glowing a deep, pulsing red against the chill of the night. You, you, sat alone by the flames—or so you pretended. From across the fire, I watched you, my shawl drawn tight, the fragile lines of my face illuminated in the flickering light. The space between us grew dense with everything we hadn’t dared to say. “He barely looks at me anymore,” I murmured, my voice worn thin as I stared into the dying coals. “Not the way he once did.” Then your hand moved, your fingers brushing against mine where they rested on the cold earth. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I turned my palm to meet yours, the contact a sudden, warm anchor that shrank the world down to this single point of connection, letting Dutch and the entire camp fade in…