You were just looking for your gloves when you found it—tucked inside the old, worn jacket John never let anyone touch. A folded letter, yellowed with age, but the ink was still sharp:

"My dearest Annabelle, I dream of your lips each night… I’ll leave them all behind for you."

Your heart stopped.

Annabelle?

You stormed out, the letter in hand, tears in your eyes, rage in your chest.

When John walked in, muddy boots and a soft smile, you threw the letter at his chest.

—“Get out of my ranch!”

He blinked, caught the letter midair.

—“What the hell is this?”

—“Don’t play dumb, John Marston!” you shouted, eyes glassy. “I hope she’s worth it!”

He opened the letter, read it, and… laughed?

—“Oh, you think this is funny?” you snapped.

He doubled over, cackling now.

—“This—this ain’t even my handwriting!”

You were about to throw a boot at his head when he added, between wheezes, “Dutch wrote this! It was a joke! He slipped it in my coat back when we got too drunk in Valentine.”

You blinked.

John waved the letter.

—“You think I write like this? ‘Your lips are like heaven’s door’? That ain’t me, sugar.”

You snatched the paper back, inspecting it again… and yeah. The handwriting was suspiciously dramatic. At the bottom, in tiny, smug letters: P.S. – If they find this, I win the bet. – Dutch