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roseghoul26 · 8 months ago

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Chapter 11: On Begged And Borrowed Time

Synopsis: A fic based off the song “ivy” by Taylor Swift. After a startling introduction to the man, Arthur Morgan became the most important part of your life. Married at a young age to an older, wealthy man to help your family, you were trapped in a loveless marriage, your only sense of escape with the rugged cowboy. Will you be able to keep your affair hidden, or will your husband find out, and destroy the last thing that made you happy? Tags: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Strangers To Lovers, Infidelity, Fem!Reader, She/Her Pronouns Used For Reader, Period Typical Misogyny, Emotional Manipulative Relationship (not with Arthur), Mostly Follows Timeline of Game, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Not Beta Read, Slow Burn, First Kiss, Arthur Is Bad At Emotions, Confessions, First Time Together, Cunnilingus, Missionary, Doggy Style, Handjobs, Mirrors, Party, Semi-Public Sex, Quickies, Unsafe Sex, Tags Updated Per Chapter Author's Note: sorry this took so long! Taglist: @lokiofasgard12 @ultraporcelainpig @that-one-beannnn @morethantheycansay@nn-hh192 @photo1030 @just-pure-trash @julialoopeezz @hqxee @salientseraph Chapter List

Failed Robbery in Saint Denis: 2 Dead, 1 Arrested, 6 Missing

You’d lost track of how many times you’d reread the article, the newspaper creased where your hands gripped it. You already knew what the article stated, yet you reread it at every free moment.

The Van Der Linde’s bank robbery had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. Pinkertons had been quick to arrive on the scene, resulting in a shootout that killed two members of the gang, as well as arresting John.

There was a pang in your chest when you saw the sketch of Hosea provided. You hadn’t been close with him, not like Arthur was, but you respected him deeply and were quite thankful for him. To see him listed as nothing more than a failed bank robber and lowlife was disheartening; you knew better.

There was another man pictured alongside Hosea, someone you didn’t recognize. You had been shocked when you first saw him, as he looked barely old enough to be an adult, let alone a part of the gang. Leonard “Lenny” Summers, his name read, and you took a mental note to ask Arthur about him later.

A deep sadness washed over you when you thought of Arthur. Unimaginable relief had flooded you when you hadn’t seen his picture in the newspaper article, meaning he was one of the six on the run. You just hoped that wherever he was, he was alright.

Glancing at the date at the top of the newspaper, you sighed deeply. It had been printed three weeks ago. Three weeks since you last saw Arthur, and possibly for the last time.

You quickly shook that thought from your mind. You refused to even entertain the idea that Arthur might’ve died. Until you saw his body, you didn’t let yourself think that he was anything other than alive. Worse for wear, but alive.

“You reading that damn newspaper again?” Hans’ voice startled you, and you dropped the paper like it burned you. He stood in the doorway of your bedroom, arms crossed over his chest, staring disapprovingly at the newspaper that had fallen back onto the nightstand.

Hans’ demeanor had turned sour over the past three weeks. He was more irritable, a constant scowl on his face, barking at you instead of speaking evenly. You figured it was the stress of his moonshine operation falling apart, and from nearly entrusting his operation’s security into the hands of the failed robbers of Saint Denis.

“Sorry, it’s just…” you sighed. “It’s just so shocking. They seemed so nice!”

“That’s what they want you to think. Can’t fault you for falling right into their trap.”

You’re the one who fell into their trap, you fool. You nearly rolled your eyes, but you forced them to remain still. “It makes me wonder how many liars I’ve trusted.” Like you.

Hans remained silent for a moment, the furrow in his brow deepening, making it almost look like he was glaring at you. “A thought that has passed my mind as well,” he finally said, sounding more like a threat than anything. He didn’t get to see your bewildered expression, though, because he disappeared from the doorway.

His words unsettled you deeply, anxiety brewing in your mind. Did he know? Was he suspicious? Or was he just speaking in an angry tone, with no idea what you were up to?

Grabbing the newspaper, you decided to hide it from your sight, realizing it was doing you more harm than good. Out of the clear of your husband, you grabbed the lockbox, and it took quite a bit of forcing to fit both newspapers in there. Next time Hans left, you’d have to clip out the important parts and discard the rest.

Your mother’s letter appeared as you were messing with the papers, a mixed sense of dread and happiness washing over you. You hadn’t told Hans about your letter. You couldn’t. You weren’t supposed to have reached out to your family, and a part of you dreaded that your mother was coming over because then you’d have to explain yourself to him.

You had no idea when she was coming over, but you knew it had to be sometime soon. Ever since that letter arrived, you’d been expecting her arrival daily, just adding to the stress you were feeling because of Arthur. To say the last few weeks had been difficult would be an understatement, but you pushed through.

Tucking the box away, you headed downstairs, the bedroom causing too many emotions for you to handle right now. You didn’t have to knock to know that Hans was in his office, the door locked shut when you passed.

Sitting on the couch, you picked up the embroidery you were working on, a hobby you’d taken up over the past two weeks to try and distract yourself, Hans permitting, of course. It barely worked, operating as more of a means to pass the time than anything.

Your thoughts were always occupied with Arthur, your stomach constantly in knots. You hadn’t had much of an appetite, and it was starting to wear you down, the bags under your eyes prominent.

It had been a startling discovery, seeing yourself in the mirror after these weeks. You looked how you did when you met Arthur, the sparkle of joy in your eyes that he brought vanishing. Your cheeks were gaunt, and you just looked exhausted.

A light knock at the door startled you, nearly stabbing yourself with your needle. You waited for Hans to emerge from his office; maybe he was expecting someone today.

But when a minute passed and he didn’t emerge, your heart hammered in your chest. Another light knock made you move, setting your embroidery on the couch. Shakily, you made your way to the front door, and you took a deep breath before opening it.

On the other side stood your mother, looking a few years older, yet still the same woman all the same. People always joked when you were a child that you were just a younger version of your mother, but as your eyes fell on her, you realized how right they had been.

A warm smile appeared on her face when she saw you, a smile that had brought you so much comfort. Even now, you feel like all the weight on your shoulders has been lifted. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to move, emotions rendering your legs useless, staring at your mother like you’d just seen a ghost.

It was when she said your name softly that the spell you were under finally broke. A sob tore from your throat, and she had barely opened her arms before you were crashing into her, your own arms clinging to her. Right now, you weren’t Mrs. Kerrigan. You were just someone who needed the comfort of their mother.

Immediately her hands were soothing you, one running through your hair, the other rubbing circles into your back. Your tears were staining her dress, but neither of you cared. For the first time in weeks, you finally let go of all the emotions that had bottled up inside of you, stress and sadness and grief pouring out, unable to hide them any longer.

You’re not sure how long she held you for, letting you cry on her shoulder. You’re sure your commotion caught the attention of Hans, but that was an afterthought. Eventually, your sobs receded, and you pulled away, your eyes puffy and cheeks red.

Tears of her own flowed down her face, and you felt her gently wipe your cheeks. “My beautiful daughter…” she murmured, and your bottom lip trembled. “I’ve missed you.”

“Me too,” you sighed. “How… how is everyone?”

“They’re well. But sweetheart, are you well?” You felt one of her thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “You don’t look it.”

“These past weeks have been… tough,” you admitted. “But that’s a conversation for later.” Where Hans won’t be able to hear me. “Oh, where are my manners? Please, come inside.” You took a step back, gesturing to the still-open door.

“Since when have you worried about manners?” Your mother teased, but you missed the slight bit of concern in her voice. “Before we head in, there is someone else who would like to see you. Margaret?” Your mother shouted to the carriage that you now saw behind her, and an even larger smile appeared on your face as you watched your sister step out.

If you looked exactly like your mother, then she was a carbon copy of your father. But when she smiled back at you, you swore you saw yourself. Her excitement was contagious as she practically ran to you, skirts bunched up in her hands as she bound up the stairs. YOu nearly toppled over as she barreled into you, and a fresh stream of tears poured down your face as you held her.

“Maggie!” You exclaimed, partially in shock. “You’ve grown so much!” It was true. Long gone was the young teenager you’d left back at home. In front of you was a grown woman, a maturity in her eyes that you weren’t expecting when she pulled away. But it was astounding to see she hadn’t lost her energy, her joy for life. A part of you almost felt envious, as much as you hated to admit.

Your name was barely audible, muffled as she hugged you, making you laugh. “You should’ve seen her when she saw your letter,” your mother smiled. “We haven’t had a moment of peace since.” She didn’t sound upset about it.

“Is that true?”

Maggie nodded her head, leaning back to look at you, her arms still wrapped around your body. “I’ve missed you so much!”

“It ain’t a competition, but I think I’ve missed you more.” Maggie playfully rolled her eyes, and you pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She was still shorter than you, but you weren’t about to comment about that now. “Let’s get inside. We’ve got a lot to discuss!”

With your arm around Maggie, you led her and your mother into your house for the first time. Their eyes danced around the spacious downstairs, and although they were used to seeing wealth, they could still appreciate the beauty of your home. If only you felt the same. Even with your family in it, it still felt foreign.

You led them to the living room, letting them sit on the couch before excusing yourself to the kitchen, going to grab drinks. Or at least you tried to until your mother stopped you with a gentle grasp of your hand. “Sit, sweetheart.”

“But-”

“You don’t have to bring out the formalities for us. We just want you, improper and perfect.”

Biting your trembling lip, you nodded, letting her sit you between her and Maggie. She didn’t let go of your hand, her other hand resting atop yours, and Maggie adjusted so that she was sitting closer to you. “You’ve got a beautiful house.” You nodded, an empty thanks leaving your lips. “Although it’s quite… empty.”

“If you’re asking about children,” you laughed, albeit bitterly, “I’m afraid me and my husband haven’t been blessed in that department.” Thank God. You weren’t opposed to children, no, but you did not want them with Hans. He’d make a terrible father, and you’d be stuck managing them by yourself.

“Is your husband around?” Maggie asked, and you struggled to come up with a response. How could you say that he was, but he locked himself away in his office at every spare moment?

You didn’t have to respond, though, because a loud cough from the staircase behind you answered for you, all three of you turning to face the noise. “Her husband is around and is quite confused. Care to explain, dear?” The endearment was dripping with vitriol.

You instinctively grasped your mother’s hand tighter. Confusion and concern were written across her face, already not liking the confrontational tone Hans had adopted. “Hans, this is my mother, Irene, and my little sister Margarete. Mother, sister, this is my husband, Hans Kerrigan.”

“I know who they are,” Hans interjected, slowly stepping towards you all. You failed to notice the slight panic in his voice. “What are they doing here?”

Your mother opened her mouth to respond, but you cut her off, afraid that she would mention the letters. “I don’t know,” you lied, and you missed the look Maggie and Irene shared. “They just showed up. Isn’t it great?”

If Hans believed you, you couldn’t tell. A forced smile found its way beneath his beard. “Great, yes.” If you thought your lying ability was terrible, his was even worse. “A pleasure, ladies.”

“Mr. Kerrigan, as lovely as it is to meet you, I’m afraid that we have… business in the city we must attend to.” Panic gripped you. “All three of us must attend to.”

Your husband's expression was unreadable, and you had no idea if he’d let you go. “Can I?” You asked, hating that you sounded like a child asking their parents if they could play with their friends. This was your family, you didn’t have to ask anyone’s permission to be with them.

It seemed your mother felt the same way, cutting your husband off before he could agree or disagree. “No daughter of mine needs permission from anyone. She’s going with me.”

A tense silence filled the room, making you shift uncomfortably. The look Irene gave Hans was deadly, her head cocked to the side like she was daring him to say something against it. Her actions confused you, though. She was advocating for your independence, yet she had no protest against a marriage against your will. Yet again, she had seemed surprised about your marriage, so maybe she didn’t have as much say as you thought. Just another thing you needed to ask her.

Hans’ eyes flicked to you, almost disbelieving. He didn’t respond, merely scoffing before retreating upstairs. You could feel the anger rolling off of him, and you knew you were in for it later.

Your mother stood, rather abruptly, yanking you to your feet as well. “We’re leaving,” was all she said.

You knew there was no room for argument, but you tried anyway. “But we just sat down-”

“We are leaving.” You didn’t offer any further protests. The house was suffocating right now, and you needed to escape. After putting on your shoes, Irene brought you back outside, Maggie hot on your heels. The tense silence still hung in the air, even as you sat in the carriage, your sister sliding in beside you, your mother across you.

Even as the carriage began to move, heading anywhere but here, no one spoke for a good five minutes. You were the first to break the silence. “I’m sorry,” you began, “he’s usually more… amicable than that.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

“You don’t need to apologize-”

“You left us for him?” Your sister interjected, not bothering to hide the hurt in her voice.

“Maggie,” your mother warned, but she just shook her head.

“No, I can’t believe it. You left us for him?” Her voice rose in anger. “Here I thought you ran away because you were in love, because you found someone who treated you well. But you ran away from us, from… me, for him? You ran away when I… I needed you. I needed my sister.”

So she also thought you ran away, and was rightfully angry at you for something you didn’t do. “I’m not sure I know what you’re sayin’. I didn’t run away.”

“Don’t lie to me. I found your note.”

“What note?” You were truly bewildered now, looking to your mother for clarification. You hated that she looked upset at you as well.

“The night you disappeared, you left a note on your bed, detailing why you were leaving. That was the last time we ever heard from you. You don’t remember?”

You felt like you were losing it. “I’ve got no clue what you’re talking about.” You scoffed, “You of all people should know that I didn’t run away.”

Now it was her turn to be confused. “What do you mean?”

“You think I wanted this? To be stuck with a man that hates everything to do with me, who controls me like I’m just his goddamn toy? In no world would I run away from my family to be with someone like him.”

“Then why did you leave?” Maggie asked, her voice surprisingly soft.

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Father set up this marriage to save the family from falling into financial ruin. I did this to help us. You know this, mother!”

You didn’t know if you should be relieved or concerned when you saw her shake her head, pure shock on her face. “He did what?” Her words were clipped, upset, but not at you anymore.

“You… you didn’t know? He officiated it and everything!”

She continued to shake her head, leaning back against her seat. “He wouldn’t…”

“But he did. He did it easily.”

Tears had begun to pool in her eyes, and a hand came to cover her mouth. “But why? How?”

So you told them. You told them how your father had woken you early in the morning, barely letting you get dressed before escorting you to the carriage that sat outside. Your belongings had already been packed, but he had not explained anything, not even during the few days of travel south. When you finally reached your destination, you had been whisked away, stuffed into a dress, and sent to the altar, where you met Hans for the first time, and then married. You realized now that the reason it had just been you, Hans, and your father at the wedding was because he wanted to keep the rest of the family in the dark. “I found out later it was done for financial security. We were about to lose everything.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either.”

“No, I mean I don’t understand why.” Her next words made you pale. “We’ve never had financial troubles. At least not severe enough to warrant… this.”

“Maybe he didn’t tell you?” If your father had withheld the details of your marriage, then it was likely he kept the details of the family’s finances from them as well. But maybe you were desperate for the last two years to have any sort of meaning, for it to not all be in vain.

“He couldn’t have hidden financial troubles from us. Not as well as he hid, well, you.”

“Then what was it all for?” You whispered, your voice on the verge of breaking. “These past two years, what were they for?”

“I wish I could tell you, sweetheart.”

“So I didn’t have to leave? So I could’ve stayed at home, where I was happy, where I would’ve taken over the family business, where my dreams wouldn’t have been put on hold?” You were rambling, but you didn’t care. Tears poured down your cheeks, mourning a life you could’ve had. “I could’ve had that?”

“Why didn’t you leave?” Your sister asked, her hand finding its way to yours.

“I couldn’t. Mainly because I was under the impression that my marriage was what was keeping you well, and I couldn’t jeopardize that. But I didn’t have the means to leave either. And where would I go?”

“You could’ve come home!”

“I had no idea where you moved to, though. The only reason I was able to write to you was because I had a… friend find your new address. Why did you move, by the way?”

“Father didn’t say, although I’m beginning to suspect it was to keep you from finding us.”

“Why would he do that though? What would require such secrecy?”

“I have no idea.” Those words seemed to be the running theme of this conversation, and you sighed, your cheeks still damp. You had no idea how to process all this new information, anger and betrayal clouding your thoughts.

“You said you had a friend,” your mother began. She was trying to distract you, which you were grateful for, but thinking of Arthur just made your heart heavier. “Who’s she?”

“Well, he…” your mother and sister shared looks, “he’s kind. He’s helped me a lot over the past months. But… But I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Do we know him?”

“How often do you read the newspaper?” You joked, with no humor in your voice.

“Every Sunday. Why?” Maggie asked, hesitantly.

“You’ll know him then. His name’s-”

Shouting from the carriage driver announcing you’d arrived in Saint Denis cut you off. It felt like no time had passed, and you weren’t expecting to be in the city already. The rest of your family seemed to be feeling the same way, a sense of wariness shared between the three of you.

“Come. Let us forget about this, if just for a moment,” your mother wiped at her face, forcing a smile on her face. “Terrible revelations aside, I wish to spend the afternoon with my daughters.” She got out of the carriage first, a gentleman escorting her out. Maggie was next, and you took a moment to compose yourself before stepping out.

The sound of the city hit you first, shouting and bells and whistles assaulting your ears. The stench was next, and your sister had a poorly hidden expression of disgust. “You’ll get used to it,” you whispered to her, remembering that she’d never been to Saint Denis. Glancing around, you saw that you were near the outskirts of the city, close to where Bronte lived.

Your mother extended an arm to each of you, and you both linked your arms with hers, walking beside her as she led you further into the city. You tried to distract yourself with the colorful imagery around you, yet your mind kept wandering to the words that had been spoken in the carriage.

You truly had no idea why your father would marry you off. You were his eldest daughter, set to be the heir of his business, his pride and joy second to his children. Your entire life, that is what you were led to believe would happen, and he seemed to believe it too. Why would he disrupt everything by sending you away?

So caught up in your thoughts, you failed to notice the different atmosphere the city held today. It was lively, sure, but it seemed almost on edge. No one greeted you as you passed, even if they recognized you, and people seemed to be almost somber.

“You’d think someone just died,” you heard Maggie mutter, pulling you from your mind.

She hadn’t been quiet, though, and the couple walking in front of you shot her each a dirty look. “That’s because someone has, girl.”

Her eyes widened. “My apologies,” she stammered, embarrassed. “Who?”

“Angelo Bronte.” Your responding gasp didn’t deter them. “They found his body in the swamp, eaten by gators. Maybe read the paper before spewing such ignorant things.”

Your mother and Maggie weren’t affected by their words, their attention was immediately on you and your reaction. “Did you know him?” Your sister asked, and you nodded.

“Not personally, but I’ve been to plenty of his parties. He was a prominent figure here, a rich one at that. He practically runs… ran this city.” You lowered your voice so only they could hear, “I’d say he got what was comin’ for him, though.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.” You sighed. “But let’s just hope the city doesn’t collapse without him.”

Your mother turned down a street, not having joined in on the conversation yet, but she was paying attention. You and Maggie continued to chat lightly, and for a moment you’d managed to successfully forget the worries in your mind. That was until you passed a wooden board, something you didn’t pay attention to until a familiar sketch caught your eye.

You suddenly stopped, much to the confusion of your sister and mother. But you didn’t hear their concerned questions; the only thing you could focus on was the bounty poster in front of you, which contained a sketch of someone you now saw to be Arthur. His features were almost shaper, the artist making him look as intimidating as possible. He was depicted like he’d been described in the papers, a bloodthirsty bank robber, a ruthless vagrant, pure evil in the public eye.

Yet even this depiction could not lessen the love you felt for him.

“Sweetheart, what is it?” You finally heard your mother, who was shaking your arm gently.

“I… I know him.” You shook your head. “Sorry, it’s nothin’.”

“Arthur?” It was incredibly strange hearing his name from your mother’s mouth. Recognition flashed across her face, most likely having read about him in the paper. “Did he hurt you?”

“What? No! Never!” You rushed to say. “He’s my… friend that I was takin’ about.” You were certainly more than that, but you were not about to explain that to your mother.

That surprised her, and she didn’t have any words. Maggie stepped in for her. “The outlaw with the five-thousand-dollar bounty is your friend?” She was in just as much disbelief as your mother, and you shushed her.

“Just tell the whole damn city while you’re at it,” you hissed. “Yes, he is my friend. Yes, I know it’s ridiculous. No, I will not go into further detail.” You spared one last glance at the poster before continuing down the road, dragging your family along beside you. Seeing him, even as just a sketch, made your heart ache. Maybe Arthur had hurt you, just not in the way you thought.

You hoped your mother didn’t see the way you reacted when you saw him, an expression you’re sure that filled his longing. An expression that wouldn’t be appropriate for “just a friend”. You hoped your sister hadn’t seen the tears that had sprung to your eyes as you read Wanted: Dead or Alive sprawled across the top.

They both didn’t question you about it, even though you knew they were dying to. They left you in silence, letting you process your emotions, which you were grateful for. If they made you talk about him, you were certain you’d burst into barely contained tears.

Your mother let you lead the way for a few more minutes, but she eventually took the reins again, steering you and a very curious Maggie to a tailor. She ushered your sister inside first but halted you when you tried to follow. Any protest died in your throat when you saw the adamant expression on her face, and so you let her take you by the arm to the narrow alleyway adjacent to the building.

“Talk to me.” Her voice was demanding yet kind.

“Mother-”

“You love him, don’t you? Your ‘friend’.” You cast your gaze to the ground, fighting tears. Were you that easy to read? Hesitantly, you nodded, and she softened. “Sweetheart…”

That broke the dam, a stifled sob leaving you as she pulled you into a hug. “I’m sorry,” you managed to get out, and you felt her shake her head.

“Why are you sorry?”

“Because I love him.”

“That is nothing to be sorry about,” she nearly laughed, pulling you back to look you in the eye.

“But I’m married. I’m… we’ve… it’s not right.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed, “but perhaps it’s what’s best. You’re miserable with Hans, and I can’t blame you. Why your father would ever agree to marry you to him is beyond me…”

“Are you sayin’ I should leave him?”

“Yes,” she responded with no hesitation. “You’ve no reason to be married to him any longer, no? It’s terrifying, but is it not scarier to imagine a life where you’re stuck by Hans’ side for years to come?”

The idea did make you shudder, especially now that you had Arthur. How long would you be able to keep your affair hidden? How long would you be able to pretend like Hans’ very presence didn’t revolt you? You guessed a few more months, tops. “Would he even agree to a divorce?” You whispered.

“I can’t answer that. But when you’re ready to ask,” she took your hands, “I’ll be right there by your side. We all will.”

“And if I don’t ask?” You blurted out. “What if I just… ran?”

“Then you’ll be running for the rest of the time Hans is on this Earth. Although, it seems like you’d have someone beside you who is quite good at not getting caught.” She sighed. “I can’t tell you what would be the best decision. But just know that whatever choice you make, I’ll support you. All I wish is to see you happy.”

You nodded, a new sense of hope growing within, something that had been lacking for a while. “If Arthur returns, I’ll do it.”

“When he returns,” your mother corrected. “Have some faith. If he cares about you nearly as much as you do him, he’ll make his way back to you.”

“He always has…” you muttered under your breath. “When he returns, I’ll do it.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

She smiled warmly at you after planting a kiss on your damp cheek. “Now, let us join your sister before she comes looking. If you couldn’t tell, she’s not the best at being subtle.”

You laughed, wiping away your tears, letting your mother lead you to the store. “I’ve noticed.”

The bell chimed as you stepped in, Maggie rushing to your sides as soon as you did. “What took you so long?” She whisper-shouted, making you laugh harder. She was as inconspicuous as a bull in a china shop. “What?”

“I told you.”

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

By the time the three of you had returned to the carriage, the sun had long since set, the moon washing the world in a cool white light. The vehicle was not only stuffed with you, Maggie, and your mother, but various bags and gowns from a successful shopping trip to the city. Your mother had not been lying when she said the family was not struggling financially, as she had easily paid for your new dresses and other items. Laughter flowed easily from the three of you, your minds fully distracted from the information of the morning.

That cheery mood lasted the whole ride, up until the driver turned down the familiar road leading to your house. Your smile fell, and you felt your mother grab your hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “You won’t have to deal with him for much longer, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

“Can it be over now?” You practically whined, anxiety bubbling in you.

“Why can’t you just come home with us?” Maggie asked, having been informed about the conversation you’d had with your mother.

“I’m not leavin’ without Arthur. Once he comes back, I’m gone.” You weren’t sure if you were convincing them or yourself.

She didn’t let go of your hand, not until the carriage came to a halt. “It’s been wonderful seeing you both,” you began. “If I’m not gone in the next few weeks, come and get me. Please.”

“Gladly,” your mother responded. “If you and Arthur need a place to stay, to lie low, just know that our, your house is available. With or without your father’s permission.”

“Get some answers from him. And give my regards to everyone else.”

“I love you, sweetheart. Always remember that.” She kissed your cheek. “We’ll see you soon. That’s a promise.”

Hugging Maggie, at least as best you could, you left the carriage before your nerves rooted you in place. With your arms full of items, it took some careful steps, but you eventually made your way up the porch. You watched as the carriage drove away, smiling as brightly as you could at your sister through the window, before letting it fall away completely.

Taking a deep breath, you walked into your home, heading straight to the staircase. Climbing up the stairs with all the stuff was also difficult, cursing under your breath when you kept stepping on the skirts of your new dresses. It took longer than necessary, but you managed to stumble into your room. You’d only taken a single step in until an unseen force hit the back of your head.

Your vision went black before you made contact with the floor.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader

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sheriffaxolotl · 27 days ago

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Bleed, Survive, Remember (Chapter 12) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Start: Chapter 1 Previous: Chapter 11 Next: Chapter 13

Summary:

“Hard not to,” the words surprised even you with their honesty. You glanced away, feeling a slight heat rise to your cheeks, but not before catching the faint flicker of something—appreciation?—in his eyes. The moment felt heavier now, charged with the quiet certainty that you couldn’t ignore—your growing feelings for him were unmistakable. His gaze met yours again, something tender and understanding lingering in his expression.

Chapter 12: Between Laughter and Silence

︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The soft crackle of the campfire was the first thing you heard as you made your way back from the horses to the main area of the camp. The sounds of camp life surrounded you: the low murmur of voices, the occasional clink of tin cups, and the distant strains of someone strumming a guitar.

You paused just outside the circle of firelight, letting the warmth of the scene wash over you. Dutch puffed on a cigar by his tent, Hosea chuckled softly at something he said, and Mary-Beth sat nearby, serene with her nose in a book. You lingered on the outskirts, hesitant to step into the calm.

“Hey there,” a soft voice greeted, breaking your thoughts. You turned to see Mary-Beth looking up from her book, her expression warm. “You’ve been keeping to yourself an awful lot this evening. Everything alright?”

You hesitated for a moment before stepping closer to the fire. “Yeah, just needed to check on my horse,” you replied, settling onto a log near her. “Figured Tater could use the company.”

“Is that so?” Mary-Beth’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “Arthur’s been spending a lot of time around you lately. You two seem to be getting along.”

Her teasing tone made you glance away, your cheeks warming. “He’s… been very helpful. That’s all.”

“Oh, sure,” Mary-Beth said with a sly grin. “Helpful. That’s one way to put it.”

Before you could respond, a loud laugh drew your attention to the other side of the camp. Javier was strumming his guitar, and Karen was dancing around the fire, bottle in hand, trying to pull Tilly into her impromptu performance. Tilly, to her credit, resisted with a half-smile, shaking her head as Karen twirled away.

“It’s nice to see people in such good spirits,” you said softly, watching the scene unfold.

Mary-Beth nodded. “Moments like these are rare nowadays. You’ve gotta hold onto them while they last.” Her voice had a wistful edge, and you wondered how many of these moments she’d seen come and go.

Your gaze drifted to Arthur’s tent, empty save for his scattered belongings. He wasn’t far—you could feel it. That quiet, steady presence lingered, even when he wasn’t in sight.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Mary-Beth’s voice was gentle, almost conspiratorial.

You opened your mouth to deny it but stopped yourself. What was the point? Mary-Beth was far too perceptive. “Maybe,” you admitted quietly.

She smiled, closing her book and leaning forward slightly. “Arthur’s a good man, you know. Stubborn as a mule and rough around the edges, but he’s got a good heart. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said, your voice soft.

Mary-Beth’s smile widened. “Good. He’s noticed you too, in case you hadn’t realized.”

Before you could respond, a sharp whistle cut through the air, drawing everyone’s attention. “C’mon, people!” Dutch called, rising from his chair with an air of authority. “Time to set plans for tomorrow. Gather ‘round, time to put in the work to figure out how we’re going to get Sean back.”

The men began to drift closer to the fire, conversations quieting as they took their places. Arthur appeared from the outskirts of camp, rifle still slung over his shoulder, and took a seat near the edge of the circle. His eyes met yours briefly, and he gave you a small nod before turning his attention to Dutch.

The fire’s warmth washed over you, and the gang’s voices rose in steady rhythm as Dutch laid out his plans. But your thoughts wandered to Arthur—the rare, fleeting smiles, that unspoken meaning behind his eyes, and the way his presence seemed to anchor the camp, even in silence. Mary-Beth’s words lingered like the warmth of the fire: He’s noticed you too.

You spent most of the time talking to Mary-Beth, Karen, Tilly, and Abigail, who cradled little Jack on her lap—all of whom had drifted over since Dutch’s call for planning. Karen, ever the spirited one, tried to draw you into one of her tales about a saloon brawl she'd caused in a town you weren’t familiar with, complete with dramatic hand gestures and exaggerated expressions. Tilly laughed along, occasionally interjecting with her own sharp commentary, while Abigail kept Jack entertained with a wooden toy, her maternal warmth a stark contrast to the roughness of camp life. It was a comforting scene, the kind that made you feel a little more connected to the group, even if you still felt like an outsider at times.

Yet, your eyes kept drifting toward Arthur. He was still sitting across the way with the men, huddled around a map or whatever it was that Dutch and Hosea were discussing. Every now and then, his gaze swept over the camp, but when his eyes settled on you, the air seemed to shift—subtle but impossible to ignore. Each time, it was like a spark igniting a quiet fire in your chest.

It was only a few days ago you would have called him a friend, someone you kept meeting on occasion that you just clicked with. But now, with how things had been processing, you would be stupid not to admit what you were feeling. You liked this man.

As if sensing your attention, Arthur’s eyes flicked toward you again, and this time, he didn’t look away as quickly. His gaze lingered, steady and thoughtful, before one corner of his mouth quirked into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. The subtlety of it made it feel like it was just for you, a shared secret in the midst of the bustling camp.

You tried to focus on the conversation around you, nodding as Karen launched into another wild story about her antics. But even as the others laughed, your eyes were drawn back to Arthur. The way the firelight caught his features, the quiet intensity in his expression—it was impossible not to notice. And the more you tried not to, the more your gaze drifted back.

When Dutch’s voice rose above the chatter, calling for the attention of the men around him, Arthur finally broke the connection of eye contact, leaning forward to listen. But even as he did, his body angled ever so slightly in your direction, as though some invisible thread still linked the two of you. You looked away quickly, your pulse quickening, and focused instead on Tilly’s teasing grin, realizing you’d been caught staring.

“See something you like?” she whispered, her voice low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, but you only shrugged, trying to play it off. “Oh, just thinking is all,” you muttered.

“Mm-hmm,” Tilly said, her knowing smile widening as she turned back to the fire.

Arthur, oblivious to the exchange—or at least pretending to be—shifted his weight, his movements slow and deliberate. His fingers brushed against the brim of his hat as he tipped it slightly. You caught a fleeting glimpse of what might have been a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as though he were in on some joke you weren’t yet privy to.

Arthur's gaze flicked toward you once more, and this time, when your eyes met, he mouthed something. You weren’t entirely sure, but it looked like, "You alright?" His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, a subtle punctuation to his silent question. You hadn’t even realized the way your brows had furrowed in response to Tilly’s knowing teasing.

You bit back a smile, your lips curving up as you mouthed back, "Fine. You?"

His response came with a slight tilt of his head and a smirk that you could only describe as playful. "Better now," he mouthed, his hand idly adjusting his hat as if to cover the faintest of grins.

Oh, this man.

A laugh threatened to escape, but you quickly pressed your lips together, glancing away before anyone could catch the silent exchange. Karen, however, was far too observant for her own good. “You look like a cat that just caught itself a canary.”

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. “What? Oh—nothing,” you stammered, shaking your head. You hadn’t even realized your smile had lingered, your mind still half-lost in the quiet exchange with Arthur.

Karen tilted her head, a knowing look crossing her face as you rubbed your eyes, trying to cover your embarrassment. “Guess I’m just tired,” you mumbled, sinking a little further into your seat.

“Well, that’d explain it,” Karen said with a wink, leaning back into the group’s laughter.

“If you’re tired, you should come sleep by us,” Mary-Beth offered kindly. “We’ve got space by our mats. It’ll be warmer there with us.”

Even as you nodded at Mary-Beth’s offer, promising yourself some rest, your thoughts stayed with Arthur, lingering like the warmth of the fire.

Tilly nodded in agreement, her smile warm. “You shouldn’t be out on your own tonight.”

You hesitated, your gaze flickering toward Arthur. His eyes caught yours briefly before he turned back to the conversation, his attention shifting as Dutch’s voice rose again. Taking a deep breath, you nodded and stood. “Alright,” you said softly, “thanks.”

As the others began packing up for the night, you followed Mary-Beth, Karen, and Tilly toward their shared space. Even as you settled into your bedroll, the quiet weight of Arthur’s gaze stayed with you—familiar, almost comforting in its presence.

It wasn’t something you could ignore anymore, the way he looked at you, that quiet understanding between you both. Every moment spent around him felt easy like you didn’t have to pretend or guard yourself. The connection was there, something undeniable and steady beneath the surface.

You pushed the thoughts away for a moment, focusing on the sounds of the camp settling in around you—the crackling fire, the whispers of the others. But deep down, you couldn’t deny how much he still lingered in your mind.

It was a quiet certainty that had started to grow, simple and real, and you weren’t quite sure how to handle it. Not yet, that is.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

The morning arrived slowly, the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees and casting long shadows across the camp. You woke with a dull ache in your side, the reminder of your injury settling in. For a moment, you lay still, listening to the soft sounds of the camp coming to life: the rustling of tents being opened, the distant nickering of horses, and the low murmur of voices exchanging quiet greetings.

With a cautious stretch, you sat up, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at your side. Mary-Beth stirred beside you, offering a sleepy smile as she shifted.

“Morning,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

You replied softly, pulling on your boots and rising slowly, working out the stiffness that had settled in your muscles. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of coffee brewing somewhere near the fire. You made your way toward it, pausing to greet a few early risers as you passed.

The warmth of the fire was a welcome contrast to the chill lingering in the air. You grabbed a tin cup and approached the Moka pot bubbling quietly by the campfire. After pouring the dark, rich coffee, you brought it to your lips and took a careful sip. The bitter warmth spread through you, grounding you in the quiet of the morning.

The sharp taste of the coffee steadied you as the camp’s gentle hum began to grow—the sounds of stirring voices, clinking pots, and the quiet rustle of life returning to the camp. Around you, the familiar rhythm of the morning routine settled in, a comforting backdrop to the day ahead.

You felt the presence before you saw him, the faint scuff of boots on dirt and the quiet weight of someone’s gaze settling on you. Turning slightly, you found Arthur standing a few paces away, his hat tipped low over his eyes and his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Mornin’,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying a warmth that seemed to match the fire.

“Morning,” you replied, your lips curving into a faint smile. “You usually up this early?”

He shrugged, stepping closer and helping himself to a cup of coffee. “Figured I’d get a head start. Got a lot to do today.”

You nodded, taking another sip of your coffee. “From all that planning that was happening last night?”

“Mm, yeah, for that,” Arthur said with a wry smile, his eyes meeting yours over the rim of his cup. There was a brief silence—comfortable, not awkward—one that didn’t need to be filled.

“You sleep alright?” he asked after a moment, his gaze dipping briefly to the bandage peeking out from under your shirt.

“Better than I expected,” you admitted. “Mary-Beth and the others were kind enough to offer me a spot by them.”

Arthur’s mouth quirked into a faint smile. “Good. Can’t have you sleepin’ out in the cold, not in your condition.”

“I’m tougher than I look, you know,” you said, a teasing edge creeping into your tone.

“Oh, I know,” Arthur replied, his eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. “Still, don’t mean you gotta prove it every chance you get, darlin'.”

You laughed softly, the sound drawing a few curious glances from others nearby. “Fair enough,” you said, shaking your head. “And what about you? Did you sleep at all, or?”

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I got some shut-eye. Don’t worry ‘bout me.”

“Better finish that coffee,” he said finally, his voice softer now. “Gonna be a long day.”

You nodded, looking away as the heat rose to your cheeks. “Right. Long day.”

Arthur lingered a moment longer before tipping his hat slightly and turning to go. As he walked away, you couldn’t help but watch him—the way he moved, steady and quiet, that familiar strength that always seemed to pull your attention. There was something about him that made it hard to look away, even as the camp bustled around you. A quiet sense of belonging began to take root, tentative but undeniable.

As you stirred from your thoughts, the distant shuffle of footsteps pulled you back to the present. Susan’s brisk voice called out from a short distance, calling your name. “Come on now. We got work to do. Quit standing around drinkin’ that coffee like it’s gonna do all the heavy liftin’ for you.”

You set your cup down reluctantly, glancing back toward the fire one last time, but Arthur was already gone. The moment you’d shared felt like it had slipped into the folds of the morning, carried off with the quiet rustle of leaves and the distant hum of camp life.

A knowing smile played on Susan’s lips before she turned, motioning for you to follow her. “Come on, Missy. We got chores to finish before the day really kicks in.”

You gave a slow nod and followed her toward the cluster of tents where the camp was already buzzing with activity.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・一═デ︻

As the sun started to set over the camp, the silence stretched on, broken only by the occasional murmur of voices, the scrape of a pot being cleaned, or the soft whinny of a horse in the distance. The men had been gone for what felt like ages—Javier, Charles, and Arthur—and each passing hour felt heavier than the last. The weight of their absence pressed against you like a slow, relentless tide.

It wasn’t until much later, when the first signs of life returned, that the quiet tension began to crack.

The sound of hooves broke through the stillness—distant but unmistakable. The familiar shuffle of horses louder, and soon enough, two figures rode into view. The man sitting behind Javier on the saddle was unfamiliar to you, his wild red locks tangled in a mess atop his head.

Sean, you realized, had to be the one riding behind Javier.

He was loud—brash, even—but there was an undeniable charm about him. His Irish accent carried easily, louder than necessary, a grin plastered across his face. “By Christ, you’d think I’ve been gone for years, not just a handful of days!” he called out, his voice cutting through the quiet like a crack of lightning.

He dismounted awkwardly, stumbling just slightly, though it didn’t dampen his swagger. That grin never left his face. “Well, what in the name of Saint Peter’s beard is all this somber nonsense? Figured you all missed me somethin’ fierce. Hell, you must’ve been lost without my charm!”

Javier dismounted beside him, far more composed but sharp-eyed as he scanned the camp. Sean, however, barreled on with his lively energy, filling the air and drawing every eye toward him as if the world revolved around his arrival.

“You’ll be tellin’ me what kind of camp this is when a fella returns home, and nobody’s cheerin’. It’s a fine welcome, let me tell ya!” Sean clapped a few of the gang members on the back, his grin somehow growing even wider. “Didn’t think I’d see any familiar faces, but here you are, all standing around like ghosts.”

It started small—a chuckle here, a smirk there—but soon, even the more stoic members of the gang were fighting off smiles. Sean had that effect: loud, reckless, and impossible to ignore. His voice brimmed with life, drawing the tension of the day away like water down a stream.

“Y'all lucky to have me, that’s for damn sure,” he went on, brushing some dust from his coat with exaggerated flair. “But enough of all that. What’s the story here, huh? Who’s got the whiskey?” His eyes gleamed as they landed on the fire, where bottles were already being passed around. Whatever heaviness had hung in the air earlier was fading, melting into the warmth of the gathering.

Someone handed him a bottle, and with a boisterous laugh, Sean tipped it back like a man who had conquered the world. The camp came alive, his voice rising above the murmurs and crackling flames. Sean’s infectious energy sparked something among the group, the sound of laughter and conversation growing louder with each passing moment.

“Wait now—who’s this one?” Sean’s gaze landed on you, sharp and curious, the grin on his face practically daring you to respond.

You blinked, momentarily lost for words, your lips parting but no sound following, caught off guard by his sudden attention. “Oh, hello,” you replied, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Sean’s grin widened, his hands spreading theatrically. “A quiet one! Saints preserve us, that won’t do. A face like that and no words to go with it? You’re breakin’ my heart already!”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, his charm and sheer audacity too much to resist. “Guess I didn’t realize I’d have to audition to stay here.”

“Oh, you’ve got wit!” Sean crowed, pointing at you like you’d just won a prize. “We’ll get on fine, you and me. Stick with me, lass, and you’ll be tellin’ stories better than Pearson’s stew is rotten—which, for the record, is a low bar.”

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. Sean’s larger-than-life personality was impossible to ignore, and the camp seemed to buzz with his return.

Before you could respond, Dutch’s booming voice rang out from nearby. “Sean!” His self-righteous tone cut through the laughter, every word dripping with importance. “Welcome back, boy! welcome back indeed! Oh! A sight for sore eyes, as always.”

Sean turned toward Dutch, his grin never wavering. “Well, now, Dutch. You’ve got the welcome of a man who missed me more than he’s willing to admit!”

Dutch stepped forward, puffing up his chest with exaggerated pride. “Indeed, indeed. The camp thrives with your return, Sean. Your… unique presence always reminds us of what matters most—loyalty, camaraderie, and, of course, a bit of spirit to liven things up.” His gaze flicked around the camp, his tone taking on a rehearsed grandiosity. “You, more than anyone, know what it takes to keep us all moving forward.”

Sean’s grin never faltered. “Well, when you put it like that, Dutch. With me getting my fair share of whiskey, and we’ll all keep ‘moving forward’!”

With that, Sean clapped Dutch on the back and strode toward the fire, his energy contagious once again. The camp, which had started to feel subdued, now buzzed with renewed life, the weight of the day finally lifting.

As the celebration Dutch had declared roared on, you watched Sean weave his way through the group like a spark lighting every corner of the camp. For all his loudness, for all his recklessness, there was something undeniably magnetic about him—a force of nature that couldn’t be contained, and for the moment, no one wanted to stop it.

The camp quickly transformed into what could only be called a celebration. Sean’s infectious energy set the tone, his voice rising above the murmur of conversation as more bottles of whiskey appeared and laughter filled the night. The tension that had lingered all day seemed to dissolve, replaced with a sense of relief and camaraderie.

You found yourself standing on the edge of it all at first, watching as the gang gathered closer to the fire, the warmth of both the flames and the company drawing them in. Sean held court at the center, gesturing wildly as he recounted some exaggerated tale about his escape, his grin splitting his face.

“And there I was,” he declared, his arms spread wide as if conjuring the scene, “face-to-face with their ugliest bastard, and I says to him, ‘Sean MacGuire ain’t gonna be taken down by the likes of you!’”

Someone handed him another bottle, and he took a long swig to punctuate his story, earning laughter from the group.

Your gaze drifted though, searching for someone else. Arthur had been with them—he’d gone out to bring Sean back—but you hadn’t seen him since their return. For a moment, you wondered where he’d slipped off to, the question tugging at the edge of your thoughts.

Before you could linger on it, a drink was thrust into your hand, startling you slightly. “Here now, none of that standin’ around lookin’ lost,” Sean declared, grinning as if he’d been watching you the whole time. “If you’re in this camp, you’re part of the lot, like it or not!”

You hesitated, glancing at the bottle in your hand before taking a tentative sip. The whiskey burned on its way down, but the warmth that followed was oddly comforting.

“Atta girl!” Sean cheered, clapping you on the back with a force that nearly made you spill the drink. “Now, let me tell ya, you’re in for a real treat tonight. Ain’t nothin’ like a MacGuire celebration!”

Before you could protest or slip back into the shadows, someone else pulled you into a conversation. Then another. And another. It was as if the camp had decided all at once that you belonged, weaving you into their stories and laughter without hesitation.

Karen leaned in, her eyes bright with amusement. “Don’t let Sean talk your ear off too much. He’s got a habit of exaggeratin’ worse than a traveling preacher.”

“Oh, come now!” Sean shot back from across the fire, somehow hearing her over the din. “If it weren’t for me, you’d all be sittin’ here bored out of your skulls!”

Laughter erupted again, and you couldn’t help but smile, the companionship pulling you in like a tide.

The laughter and noise of the camp surrounded you like a warm blanket, each cheer and burst of chatter pulling you further into the fold. Yet, even as you found yourself swept up in the celebration, a small part of your mind remained detached, wandering.

Just as you were about to let the thought of Arthur’s whereabouts fade, movement at the edge of camp caught your eye. A familiar silhouette emerged from the shadows—the unmistakable figure of him on horseback, even from a distance. Arthur’s horse came into view first, the large animal plodding wearily as Arthur led it toward the hitching post. His broad shoulders and well-worn hat stood out against the dim light, and you straightened instinctively, your focus narrowing.

He hitched his horse with the practiced ease of someone well-accustomed to the task, his hands moving smoothly. His head tilted slightly, as if listening to the distant hum of the celebration. For a moment, he stood there, resting a hand on the horse’s neck as though gathering himself.

Then he moved, his steps purposeful as he made his way toward Dutch’s tent. The gang’s leader was already waiting, standing just outside the canvas shelter with his arms crossed and a cigar in hand. Dutch’s posture was relaxed, his usual theatrical airs subdued by what seemed to be genuine good spirits.

You couldn’t hear their conversation over the noise of the camp, but the way Dutch clapped Arthur on the shoulder spoke volumes. They were discussing Sean’s return, no doubt. Dutch’s grin was wide, his expression carrying the kind of satisfaction that rarely touched his features so honestly. Arthur, by contrast, appeared more composed, his responses quiet and measured, marked by subtle nods and the occasional gesture.

You found yourself watching them longer than you intended, the rest of the camp’s revelry fading into the background. Arthur held your attention like nothing else once again. Even as Dutch’s voice rose in brief laughter, you couldn’t pull your gaze away from the way Arthur remained steady, grounded.

It wasn’t until someone bumped into you, jostling your drink slightly, that you snapped back to the present. Karen gave you a knowing look, a sly smile playing at her lips.

“Watchin’ 'Mister Morgan', are we?” she teased, her voice low enough that only you could hear. The playful jab at the title you used to call Arthur sent a flicker of heat to your cheeks.

You quickly looked away. “Just... thinkin’,” you replied, though your tone betrayed your attempt at nonchalance.

Karen laughed softly, taking a sip from her own drink. “Sure, sure. Well, don’t let him keep you from enjoyin’ yourself. Arthur’s got a way of makin’ himself scarce when it suits him. Don’t mean you gotta do the same.” She left you with that, disappearing into the swirl of laughter and music near the fire. You glanced back toward Dutch’s tent, but Arthur had already moved on, his figure disappearing into the deeper shadows of the camp.

The night grew livelier as bottles were passed around and the laughter became bolder. Sean, of course, was in his element, soaking up the attention like a sponge. You found yourself leaning against a stack of crates, nursing the whiskey in your hand and watching as the Irishman clambered onto an overturned box near the fire.

“Right, you lot!” Sean hollered, throwing his arms wide to command the crowd. The firelight danced across his face, his grin as wide as ever. “I think it’s about time we had a proper toast, eh? A toast to me, the fearless and ever-handsome Sean MacGuire, back in the bosom of his dear family!”

The camp erupted into a mix of cheers, laughter, and the occasional groan of complaint. Karen hollered loudly from her seat at one of the rounded tables, her whiskey sloshing dangerously in her bottle. Uncle let out a hearty laugh beside her, while Javier leaned back, his guitar resting comfortably on his lap, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

Sean raised his bottle high, his voice booming over the crackling fire. “Now, I know what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’, ‘Sean, what did we ever do to deserve a man like you?’ And to that, I say... not a damn thing!”

More laughter rippled through the camp, and Sean soaked it in, his chest puffed out with exaggerated pride. “But don’t worry, my friends. You don’t need to say it. I know you’re glad to have me back.”

His voice still loud and the grin never left his face. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for some of you.” He paused, before continuing with a hearty laugh. “So, here’s to all of you, my family. The ones who pull you outta the fire when the world wants to see you burn.”

The gang raised their drinks once more, cheering in unison. Sean took a long swig from his bottle, then hopped off the box with a flourish, bowing theatrically as he returned to the table where Karen, Uncle, and Javier sat.

“Well said, Sean,” Karen teased, raising her glass as he plopped down beside her. “Even if half of it was nonsense."

”Half?” Sean repeated, feigning offense. “Karen, love, I’m hurt. Deeply, truly wounded.”

“Don’t worry, Sean,” Uncle chimed in, his voice raspy from age and drink. “We’ll let your ego nurse the wound.”

The group burst into laughter, and Sean leaned back with a broad grin. “Ah, Uncle, you ol’ bastard. You’re lucky I’m feelin’ generous tonight.”

Javier began strumming his guitar, the gentle melody drifting through the camp as the energy shifted slightly. Karen tapped the table rhythmically, her voice breaking into a familiar tune.

“Come all you young maidens, take warnin' from me,” she sang, her voice light and teasing. “Never trust a cowboy an inch above your knee!”

The others joined in, their voices blending into a raucous harmony. Sean’s tenor carried strongly, his Irish lilt giving the song a unique flair.

“And it’s Louisville Maid, I’m a-comin' to see,” they sang together, the camp now alive with laughter and energy. “With my rope and my saddle, I’ll come and set you free!”

Even Uncle joined in, though his voice wavered off-key, drawing playful jeers and laughs from the others. You watched from your spot, caught between the urge to join them and the comfort of observing.

As the song reached its final verse, Sean threw an arm around Karen’s shoulder, swaying dramatically to the rhythm. “A toast to Louisville Maid and the fine folks of this camp!” he declared, raising his bottle once more.

The laughter and clinking of bottles faded, but another sound began to drift through the camp—softer, smoother. Dutch had set up the gramophone near his tent, the crackling melody of Du Du Liegst Mir Im Herzen filling the night air. The tune, romantic and melancholic, cast a gentle, enchanting spell over the camp, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy that had preceded it.

Dutch stood with a flourish, his usual commanding presence softened by a rare touch of tenderness as he extended his hand to Molly. “May I have this dance, my dear?” he asked, his voice smooth and full of his usual dramatic flair, drawing smiles from those nearby.

Molly, ever the willing recipient of his charm, placed her hand in his with a laugh. “Of course, Dutch.”

The two began to sway gently to the music, Dutch’s movements surprisingly graceful as he guided Molly with practiced ease. The rest of the camp fell still in motion around them, the lively energy from Sean’s antics giving way to the more intimate rhythm of the night.

"Look at me, with the bell of the ball," you could faintly hear Dutch say to Molly from where you had perched yourself.

“Oh, stop it, you,” Molly laughed, her voice light with joyful fluster.

You watched them from your place by the crates, the sight stirring something bittersweet within you. It was a fleeting moment of beauty, made all the more poignant by its rarity.

Across the fire, Mary-Beth sat with a wistful smile on her face, her hands folded in her lap. Her gaze drifted from Dutch and Molly to you, and a playful gleam sparkled in her eyes. She stood gracefully, brushing her skirt, and made her way over to where Arthur sat on a nearby log, leaning back with his hat tipped low.

“Arthur,” Mary-Beth said sweetly, her tone laced with just enough charm to make him lift his head. “You’ve been sittin’ there like a lump all evening. Come dance with me.”

Arthur gave her a sidelong glance, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I don’t reckon I’m much for dancin’, Mary-Beth.”

She didn’t let him off so easily. “Nonsense.”

With a resigned sigh, Arthur rose, the smirk softening into something gentler as he offered her his hand. Mary-Beth beamed and led him to the open space where Dutch and Molly were still swaying.

Their dance was unpolished but earnest, Mary-Beth laughing softly whenever Arthur’s boots scuffed against hers. The sight drew a smile to your face, though you quickly looked away, the warmth in his expression as he indulged Mary-Beth’s request stirring something unexpected in your chest. The sensation was fleeting yet intense, leaving a quiet ache that you hadn’t noticed until now. Your fingers fidgeted against the fabric of your sleeve, a nervous habit that only seemed to grow stronger as the moment lingered.

Before long, Mary-Beth caught sight of you standing off to the side. Her eyes lit up with a sudden spark of mischief, and she whispered something to Arthur. He blinked, glancing your way, and for a brief moment, a flicker of something like apprehension crossed his face. He nodded, though, and before you could make sense of what was happening, Mary-Beth was striding toward you.

“Your turn,” she said brightly, holding out her hand to you.

“What?” you asked, startled.

“You should dance with Arthur,” she said, her grin practically glowing with mischief. “He’s better than he lets on. Besides, you’ve been standing here like a statue all night.”

“Mary-Beth, I don’t—” But before you could finish the protest, she took your hand with surprising determination and gently tugged you forward. The next thing you knew, you were standing in front of Arthur, his tall frame and steady presence making your nerves buzz in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

Arthur’s hand came up to rub the back of his neck, his usual calm demeanor just slightly cracked by a hint of uncertainty. “You don’t have to,” he said softly, his voice lower than before, almost hesitant. “If you’d rather not.”

You hesitated, the weight of his gaze holding you in place. Something about the way he looked at you—steady but uncertain, like he was waiting for a cue—made it hard to step away. Finally, you shook your head lightly, offering a small, nervous smile. “I don’t mind,” you murmured, though your voice wavered just enough to betray your own nerves.

He held out his hand, and you took it, his grip firm but careful. As the gramophone’s melody continued, Arthur placed his other hand lightly on your waist, and the two of you began to move. His touch was warm, grounding, but the closeness brought a flutter of self-consciousness that you tried to push aside.

“You don’t seem the type for dancin’,” you said quietly, attempting to inject a bit of levity.

Arthur’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, his confidence returning just enough to match your tone. “And you seem the type to avoid it altogether,” he shot back, his voice low and amused.

You huffed a soft laugh, your smile growing despite yourself. “Guess I can’t argue with that.”

The rest of the camp seemed to blur, the background noise of laughter and conversation fading as you focused on the feel of his hand in yours, the quiet strength he carried so naturally. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable; it was steady, like him. But beneath it all, there was a tension, the kind that made every brush of his fingers and every shift in your step feel significant.

“Not so bad, huh?” Arthur murmured after a while, his smirk softening into something gentler.

“No,” you replied, finding a small smile of your own. “Not bad at all.”

Arthur’s smirk deepened just slightly, his blue eyes catching the light of the fire in a way that made your stomach flip. “Y’know,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with as much steadiness as you could muster. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were too.”

He let out a soft laugh, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

The gramophone’s melody swelled, the romantic tune seeming to echo the unspoken words hanging in the air between you. Arthur’s hand on your waist shifted slightly, his grip steady but almost imperceptibly closer. You couldn’t help but notice the way he looked at you—not in the fleeting, casual way most people did, but like he was studying you, seeing something he hadn’t expected to find.

“Didn’t peg you for someone who’d be any good at this,” you said, breaking the silence with a teasing lilt in your voice. “Figured you’d be all left feet.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, his lips quirking again. “You wound me,” he replied, mock offense coloring his tone. “I ain’t that hopeless.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you shot back, though your grin gave away your playfulness. “I’ve seen you trip over a tree root just walkin’ through camp.” The memory brought a small smile to your lips.

“That root came outta nowhere,” he said defensively, though the laughter in his eyes betrayed him. “And here I was thinkin’ you were enjoyin’ my company. Turns out you’re just here to roast me.”

“Multitasking,” you said, your grin widening.

Arthur chuckled again, shaking his head as if to concede the point. Every step, every slight adjustment of his hand, felt like it carried more meaning than it should have. You were acutely aware of the heat of his palm on your waist, the way his fingers brushed yours as you moved together.

“You’re not bad at this either,” Arthur said after a moment, his tone quieter now, more thoughtful. “Reckon you’ve done this before.”

“Not really,” you admitted, your voice softening. “Never had much reason to.”

Arthur tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “No dancin’ halls in your neck of the woods?”

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Not unless you count a saloon with busted floorboards and folks too drunk to stay upright. Didn’t seem worth the trouble.”

Arthur chuckled, the deep timbre of his laugh warming the space between you. “Guess that makes two of us.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “You? I figured you’d have at least one wild story about sweepin’ some poor girl off her feet.”

“Maybe once or twice,” he admitted, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But most folks who’ve got sense steer clear of men like me. Can’t say I blame ‘em.”

There was something in the way he said it—quiet and matter-of-fact, but tinged with an edge of self-awareness that made your chest ache. You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing his as you moved. “You’re not as bad as you think,” you said softly, your gaze flicking up to meet his. “Or as bad as you let on.”

Arthur’s smirk faltered, his expression shifting as though your words had caught him off guard. “You don’t know me that well,” he said, his voice dropping lower, tinged with caution.

“Maybe not,” you replied, your tone quiet but steady. “But I’ve seen enough to know there’s more to you than just the bad—y’know, when you’re not busy robbing me.” The last part slipped out as a whisper, a teasing jab you couldn’t quite resist.

His gaze held yours, searching, as if trying to decide whether to be amused or take you seriously. The firelight flickered between you, softening the hard edges of his face and casting dancing shadows across his features.

“Not many people look past the rough edges,” he said at last, his voice barely more than a murmur.

“Maybe not many people bother,” you countered, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “Guess I’m not like most folks. Seems I don’t mind your company.”

Arthur’s lips twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, his thumb brushing against your hand—so subtle it might’ve been accidental. Still, the warmth of it sent an unbidden shiver through you.

“You really ain’t,” he said quietly, almost as though talking to himself.

You glanced down, avoiding the weight of his gaze. A quiet vulnerability crept into your voice. “I’m not usually one for... this kind of thing,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Crowds, noise, all the... social stuff. Never really felt like I belonged.”

Arthur tilted his head slightly, his gaze calm and observant, as if considering what you’d said. “Why’s that?” His tone was soft, careful not to push too much.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening ever so slightly against his before you caught yourself. “I guess I’ve just always felt out of place,” you admitted quietly. “People tend to look at me and... well, it’s easier not to try.”

Arthur didn’t answer right away, but the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. His hand, resting on your waist, gave a faint squeeze—steady, grounding. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with keepin’ to yourself,” he said after a moment, his voice calm. “But you fit in here, whether you realize it or not.”

Your gaze flicked back to his, surprised by the quiet certainty in his expression. “Do I?”

Arthur nodded, his lips curling into a small, faint smile that held a quiet confidence. “Yeah. Might take some time to see it, but you’ve got a place here.”

As the song’s final note faded, the gramophone crackling softly, the sounds of the camp began to seep back in. Arthur’s hand slowly slid away from your waist, deliberate and unhurried, as if neither of you wanted the moment to end too soon.

You stepped back, the absence of his touch leaving a subtle weight behind. He stayed there, watching you with his usual calm, measured gaze, as if he was on the edge of saying something. But instead, he tilted his head slightly, his smirk softening.

“Well,” he said, his voice low, “you didn’t step on my boots once.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, breaking some of the tension. “Could’ve been worse,” you replied, trying to sound lighter despite the quiet buzz in your chest.

Arthur chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck as he glanced toward the fire. “Could’ve. But it wasn’t.”

It wasn’t. The thought lingered in your mind, heavier than you expected. For all your nerves and hesitation, you’d enjoyed it—more than you’d care to admit, even to yourself.

“Well, thanks,” you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. “For... dragging me out of my corner, I guess.”

Arthur shrugged lightly, his smirk shifting into something softer, more genuine. “Reckon it was worth it.”

The way he said it made your cheeks flush, though you tried to brush it off with a faint smile. You glanced away, breaking the intensity of his gaze, but found yourself stealing one last look as he stepped back.

Arthur’s low chuckle followed you as you took a step toward the crates where you’d been sitting earlier. But before you could fully retreat, his voice cut through the night, quieter this time.

“Y’know,” he said, stopping you mid-step.

You paused, the sound of his voice lingering in the quiet air. His tone was different now—careful, deliberate, like he was choosing his words carefully. The tension between you felt delicate, fragile, as if the moment was hanging by a thin thread.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked softly, turning slightly to face him again.

Arthur shifted his weight, the smirk still there but less sure now. “Just—never mind,” he murmured, giving a small shake of his head.

You arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms lightly over your chest. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

His gaze flicked down to his boots before rising to meet yours. “Well,” he drawled, dragging the word out with a hint of amusement, “maybe I just like watchin’ how flustered you get when I say things like that.”

You huffed a laugh, your cheeks flushing again. “Flustered? Please, Arthur. You’re not that charming.”

But damn it, he was—charming in that rough-edged way you’d never admit aloud.

Arthur stepped a little closer, narrowing the space between you just slightly. “Oh, so now you’re sayin’ I’m somewhat charming?” he teased, his smirk widening into something undeniably playful.

The firelight danced across his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his features and deepening the shadows, making him look even more enigmatic. You glanced away, the warmth in your chest making it harder to maintain your usual cool façade.

“Hmm,” you murmured, pretending to weigh his words with a dramatic roll of your eyes. “Maybe you’re just good at talkin’ nonsense.”

His laugh came low and genuine, the sound rumbling in a way that made you suppress a smile. “Talkin’ nonsense, huh? That what you think?”

You met his gaze with a teasing smirk. “Could be.”

Arthur’s smirk softened, his eyes holding yours a beat longer than usual, filled with something quieter, steadier. The banter still lingered between you, but underneath it, there was a weight neither of you acknowledged.

“Alright,” he said at last, his voice dipping into a softer, more sincere tone, “Nonsense or not... I want you to stick around.”

Your breath hitched briefly, though you quickly masked it with a faint shrug. “Well, don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me now,” you replied, aiming for lightness, though the usual teasing edge faltered just slightly.

Arthur chuckled softly, stepping back to give you a bit more space, though the warmth in his gaze didn’t waver. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You dropped your eyes to the ground, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite your best effort to suppress it. The moment lingered, the playful banter slipping into something deeper, unspoken yet undeniably present.

The sound of voices raised in laughter broke the spell, drawing your attention toward the campfire. The mood had shifted back to the lively, chaotic energy of the gang. Sean’s unmistakable Irish brogue carried across the clearing, his boisterous laughter cutting through the din.

Arthur sighed quietly, his gaze drifting to the flames as though lost in thought. You studied him for a moment longer, unsure if you should say something more or let the moment pass.

Arthur tilted his head toward the edge of camp, his eyes glancing toward the wooded area where the shadows stretched longer. “C’mon,” he said, his voice low enough not to draw attention. “Could use some quiet.”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, following as he stepped away from the firelight. The lively chatter of the gang faded with every step, replaced by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of crickets. He led you toward a cluster of trees just beyond the camp’s edge, where the wooded area offered a sense of privacy without fully disappearing from view.

As you reached the spot, Arthur leaned casually against a tree trunk, the faint light of the campfire barely illuminating his face. He dug into his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette. His movements were unhurried, as though the quiet moment between you wasn’t something to be rushed.

“Do you smoke?” he asked, breaking the silence that had settled between you.

You tilted your head, considering him for a beat. “I’m not against it,” you replied with a faint smirk. “If you’re offering, that is.”

Arthur chuckled softly, the sound warm and low in the still night. “Figured you might say that.” He struck a match against the sole of his boot, the brief flare of light casting sharp shadows across his face as he lit the cigarette. He took a slow drag before holding it out to you.

Stepping closer, you accepted it, the warm burn of tobacco filling your lungs as you took a measured inhale. As your hands brushed against his when you reached out, a spark of tension passed between you—a physical reminder of the quiet, simmering connection that neither of you could ignore. The air between you grew heavier, charged with something more than just the flicker of the cigarette. You could feel the warmth of his hand against yours, the lingering touch stretching out longer than was necessary, like neither of you wanted to pull away.

Arthur’s eyes followed the cigarette as it moved toward your lips, his gaze tracing the slow inhale, the way your breath softened the night. The silence thickened, and when you exhaled, his eyes lifted, meeting yours with a quiet intensity that mirrored your lingering thoughts.

You handed the cigarette back, your fingers brushing his once more, and for a brief moment, you felt the way his hand tightened around the cigarette, a small but noticeable flicker of tension in his grip. The weight of his presence lingered, and you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was watching you a little too closely.

Arthur watched you, his smirk softening. “Not bad,” he remarked, his voice easy. “Looks like you’ve done this before.”

You leaned against a tree opposite him, crossing your arms lightly. “Smokin’? I’ve had my share of bad influences.”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, taking another drag. “Guess I’d fit right in, then.”

“Maybe,” you replied with a faint grin. “Maybe more trouble than I can handle..”

Arthur didn’t immediately respond, his eyes watching you with a quiet intensity. The ember of the cigarette flickered between you, casting shadows that danced across his face.

For a moment, Arthur didn’t speak, his gaze lingering on you as if weighing his next words carefully. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he said, his voice quieter now, as though the words weren’t meant to drift too far.

The way he said it made your chest tighten, though you tried to play it off with a small laugh. “That your way of sayin’ I’m trouble too?”

Arthur’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting faintly in the dim light. “No, that’s my way of sayin’ you’re somethin’ I can’t quite figure out yet.”

You weren’t sure how to respond to that, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. Instead, you reached out, taking the cigarette from him again. “Well, you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out,” you said lightly, though your heart was beating a little faster now.

Arthur’s gaze lingered on you, his smirk fading into something more thoughtful. “Reckon I just might... That mean you're sticking around?”

You hesitated, the weight of his question settling in your chest. “Maybe,” you murmured, though it felt more like a promise than a reply.

Arthur studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “Maybe isn’t a no,” he said softly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

You met his gaze, the tension between you thickening once more. “Maybe,” you echoed, your voice a little quieter this time as if the word carried more weight than you intended.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant hum of the camp, the low crackle of the dying cigarette, and the gentle rustle of leaves in the night breeze. Arthur shifted slightly, his hand brushing against yours as he reached for the cigarette one last time.

His touch lingered just a moment longer this time, grounding you both in the quiet moment. His thumb brushed lightly against your hand, sending a jolt through you before he pulled back, the brief contact leaving a warmth behind that you couldn’t quite shake.

“Well,” he said, breaking the silence with a soft chuckle, “I’ll take that as a good sign.”

You laughed lightly, though your heart still thudded a little harder in your chest. “You’re assuming a lot, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur frowned playfully, stepping closer to you, the smile on his face now replaced by a look of mock disapproval. “Mister Morgan, huh?” he said, his voice dropping to a lower tone, scolding but not unkind. “What’d I tell you ‘bout callin’ me that?”

You glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What, am I not allowed to be formal?”

Arthur crossed his arms and leaned in slightly, his smirk returning but softer, more amused. “You’re not that formal.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was a warmth behind it that made the air between you seem a little more charged.

You laughed softly, a little breathless. “Guess I’ll have to keep workin’ on it then.”

Arthur studied you for another moment, his gaze unwavering. “I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t.”

His words hung in the air, carrying an unspoken promise that neither of you fully acknowledged, but felt all the same.

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing grin flickering across your face. “Well, you do seem to enjoy tellin’ me what to do.”

Arthur’s smirk deepened, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “Only when you make it easy.” He reached out again, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear in a tender, almost subconscious movement.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the stillness between you stretching out longer than it should. The unexpected gentleness of his touch startled you both, as neither of you expected it.

Arthur blinked, a soft furrow between his brows. His hand lingered there, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as his fingers gently tucked a stubborn cowlick behind your ear. “That thing’s always sticking out,” he muttered, more to himself than anything else, his voice quieter, almost contemplative.

The unexpected comment—a familiar yet tender one—sent a rush of warmth through you. You watched him, surprised by the quiet intensity in his gaze, his expression more thoughtful now than teasing.

Arthur’s smirk faded into something softer, his thumb lingering longer than necessary. “Couldn’t stand lookin’ at it anymore,” he admitted, though there was no teasing edge to his tone.

The air between you thickened, the weight of the moment settling in. You felt like you were holding your breath, unable to look away from him.

You felt the warmth of his touch lingering, his thumb resting lightly against your skin in a way that made your pulse quicken. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Arthur’s gaze softened further, his smirk entirely gone, leaving behind a quiet vulnerability. His eyes searched yours, as though trying to understand something deeper about you.

“I...” he started, his voice rough yet gentle, almost as if he were choosing his words carefully. “I didn’t mean to make things complicated.”

Your breath caught at his honesty, the weight of his words settling in your chest. You shook your head slightly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “You don’t,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping even lower, becoming intimate and soft. Arthur’s voice wavered as he spoke. “I... I ain’t used to sayin’ things like this.” His words were slow, and deliberate, like he was trying to gather them up from some far-off place in his mind.

You stayed quiet, giving him the space to figure out what he wanted to say.

“I... I’m not real good with words, to be honest.” His gaze shifted, hesitating before meeting yours again. “But—” A small frown tugged at his brow. “Pretty girls make me feel like I don’t know nothin’.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the admission. “Pretty girls?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Arthur’s smirk returned, though now it carried a hint of discomfort. “Yeah,” he muttered, his confidence wavering. “Never could figure out how to talk to ‘em. Always feel like a fool, ‘round ‘em.”

There was something in the way he said it—so unlike the composed Arthur Morgan you had come to know. He, who carried himself with quiet assurance and a steady hand, now faltered in front of you. It left your chest tightening.

You stared at him, struggling to process his sudden confession. His vulnerability, so unexpected, left you speechless. The silence that followed stretched, thick and heavy, each second filled with unspoken tension.

Arthur frowned, running a hand through his hair, his usual calm replaced by something nervous and restless. “Damn it, why’d I go and say somethin’ like that?” His voice sharpened with self-deprecation. “Stupid. Real stupid.”

You opened your mouth, but the right words eluded you. The silence deepened, suffocating and awkward.

Arthur cursed under his breath, the cigarette burning between his fingers. “Guess I ought to keep my mouth shut,” he muttered, his tone colder now. “Whiskey’s talkin’, not me.”

“Arthur—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“Forget it,” he said, his gaze distant, the warmth that had been there before now gone. “Forget I said any of it. I’ve had too much damn tobacco, too much whiskey. Can’t think straight.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Stupid old fool, blabberin’ about things he doesn’t understand.” He mumbled, placing the cigarette back between your fingers, his touch no longer lingering.

You stood there, flustered, unsure how to respond. The air between you felt heavier, unravelling the quiet moment into something difficult to grasp. A lingering warmth filled your chest, leaving you off-balance, uncertain how to piece it all back together.

You glanced down at the cigarette, now dangerously close to burning out. The ember glowed faintly, its heat brushing against your fingers, causing you to pull back instinctively. The end was nearly spent, much like the fragile moment between you and Arthur.

Your face burned, the heat spreading from your cheeks to your ears, as though the dying cigarette mirrored the rising embarrassment within you. Arthur had walked away, but his words echoed in your mind, lingering heavier than before.

“He thinks I’m pretty,” the thought crashed into your chest like a shockwave. It was foreign, overwhelming. Arthur Morgan had admitted something so vulnerable and disarming—and now you were left standing with it.

Your pulse pounded, a rapid thrum of emotions you couldn’t control. Flustered confusion mixed with something deeper—a longing perhaps, or a realization you were only beginning to understand. Pretty. The word that had never truly applied to you never seemed to fit. In your mind, it was reserved for the women who had grace and composure, who walked with ease through a world that never felt like yours. It wasn’t something you had ever seen in yourself, let alone thought to be seen by someone else.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to steady the thrum of your pulse, but it only intensified. “Pretty,” you whispered, the word tasting foreign yet oddly sweet on your tongue.

The silence stretched on, but beneath it, a new uncertainty stirred—a quiet, aching sense of something you couldn’t ignore.

You stared down at the cigarette, now nearly consumed by the night. The faint glow flickered, the dying ember the only light in the still darkness. The heat brushed against your fingers again, and this time you let it linger a moment longer before pulling back. The burning wasn’t painful, but it mirrored the fiery warmth spreading across your skin and deep into your chest.

It wasn’t just the admission—it was the way he said it, so unexpected, so genuine, that it left you breathless. Arthur had laid bare a vulnerability that shook you to your core.

The silence around you was heavy, and suffocating, pressing everything else aside, leaving only the storm inside you. The heat in your chest wouldn’t relent, each beat of your heart seeming to rock you.

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the heat in your cheeks to cool, the rush in your chest to slow. But when you opened them, the world didn’t quiet. You couldn’t ignore the aching realization that Arthur Morgan had seen you in a way no one else had before.

The heat didn’t fade, nor did the flutter in your chest. It clung to you, each beat of your heart a reminder of his words, of that quiet, intimate moment where he had looked at you differently. A word you never thought applied to yourself was now branded into your soul, never to be forgotten.

But despite his vulnerability, he walked away, leaving you there in the stillness of the night, your thoughts a whirlwind. He vanished into the darkness before you could piece your scattered thoughts together. The weight of his absence sank in, and you realized the silence had left him doubting—doubting himself, doubting you.

The quiet wasn’t peace. It was heavy, suffocating. Weighted by the realization that Arthur believed he’d messed up. A breath hitched in your throat, and a bitter sigh escaped your lips.

Still, his words echoed. Pretty —his words lingering, leaving an imprint on your soul, a mark he’d left, whether he meant to or not.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・一═デ︻

Slow burn slow burn slow burn — I not moving in complete order with the missions just yet, but I'll be on track soon. I swear. Maybe.

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