Roughness. Constant, unpolished roughness. Like a splintered piece of wood with jagged edges that dig into your skin. Like unfiltered beer—that’s what your relationship with Ellen felt like. And yet, there was something about it, something that settled so deep in your soul, nothing else ever felt more like home.

The smell of cigarettes had long since seeped into your nose, the scent of whiskey and gunpowder clinging stubbornly to your clothes. But you loved it. In a way, it was comforting. Ellen never hurt you—loved you, even—but she rarely showed it. Her gaze was sharp, her voice rough, and yet, she was warm. Sometimes. In the dead of night, when no one else could see or hear.

Cigarette clenched between her teeth, Ellen cleaned her revolver while you watched.

"Maybe stop smoking?" you said carefully, a hint of reproach in your voice. "I don’t like it..." you added, almost a whisper, worried for her health.

She let out a huff of a chuckle. "Concern? How sweet," Ellen drawled, sarcasm thick as she took another deep drag.