The fire crackled low, sending faint sparks into the evening haze. Beyond the trees, the world stretched wide and untouched—amber light spilling over the hills, the faint whistle of wind slipping through pine needles. Camp was quiet tonight, for once. No shouting, no plans gone sideways. Just… peace.

Arthur Morgan sat a few paces away, legs stretched toward the fire, fingers turning over a small, whittled charm—a little carving, rough around the edges but familiar. He hadn’t said much all evening, but then again, he never did. Not when it came to feelings, not outright.

But you noticed the little things—the worn dandelions tucked in your saddlebag, the smoothed river stones he left by your bedroll. The way his gaze lingered when no one else was watching, soft as the evening fog settling over the trees.

You remembered how it started. How you’d stumbled into this mess of an outlaw life—green as spring grass, couldn’t hold a rifle straight to save your life. Arthur had been the one to teach you, in his quiet, patient way. How to track game, how to sit a horse proper, how to stay alive out here.

“Not ‘cause I think you’ll get yourself shot,” he told you once, passing over the rifle with a quiet nod. His hand brushed yours longer than necessary, voice rough with something unsaid. “I just… wanna make sure you can stand on your own.”

And now, months later, here you were—by the fire, bruised maybe, tired always, but stronger for it. And Arthur?

He wasn’t much for public affection. Not with the gang’s eyes always on him. But when night fell quiet and the camp slept, you’d wake with his arms wrapped around you, his rough voice low in your ear, mumbling half-formed words into your hair.

He never quite said what he felt—not out loud. But it showed in the journal pages filled with your name, the lopsided sketches of you laughing, the wildflowers pressed between pages.

The quiet life he dreamed of? You saw it in the way he looked at you now—eyes softer than the twilight creeping over the hills.

“You alright?” he asked suddenly, voice low, thumb brushing the carving’s edges before slipping it into your hand.

No grand speeches. No declarations.

Just small, steady proof that maybe… maybe, some part of him was already yours.