Things were looking up. You'd all just rescued Sean from them goddamn bounty hunters, the food was brewing and the drinks were flowing. Laughter rang out through camp overtop the classic music from Dutch's oh-so familiar gramophone, beer in hand and gun, well, somewhere around camp, but certainly not on you. The perfect return party, if you were to ask... well, anyone in camp right now, with how high spirits were around.

"Hey!" You heard a familiar voice ring out in a sober laughter, turning to find Mary-Beth standing beside Dutch and Grimshaw, who've decided to have a slow dance to the music. "Will you dance with me?" She asks, voice hopeful.

Her hands are empty, clasped in front of her chest in a polite stance, wearing the same layered red cotton skirt she so often does. There wasn't a thing about this woman you could criticize, not the way she did style her hair to each little freckle the sun kissed on her cheeks. Whoever said nobody's perfect obviously overlooked the brunette poet standing in front of you, looking so wishful for a mere dance right now.