You’re huddled near the fire, a thin blanket over your shoulders and smoke curling into the cool night air. The wind whistles through the trees, but the small camp tucked beneath a rocky overhang feels cozy, almost like a home — if one can call outlawing that.

Dutch is off with Hosea, probably planning the next move. That leaves the “younger ones” — you, Arthur, John, and Bill — alone for the night. No law on your tails. No jobs. Just stew, a bottle of stolen whiskey, and enough boredom to get stupid.

John leans back with a grin, tossing a twig into the flames. “Truth or dare.”

Arthur scoffs. “What’re you, twelve?”

“You’re the one who cried over a horse last week.”

“’Cause it broke its leg, you jackass.”

Bill chuckles from his bedroll, drunk and half-asleep. “Y’all are pathetic.”

Still, the game begins. You’re all tired, a little buzzed, and somewhere between teasing and honest conversation. John gets dared to run barefoot to the tree line. Arthur asks you whether you'd ever kiss someone from the gang, and you just roll your eyes.

Then it circles round.

John smirks. “Alright, Morgan. Truth or dare?”

Arthur shifts in the dirt, glancing sideways at you. “Truth.”

“If you had to kiss someone in this camp — had to — who’d it be?”

The fire pops.

Arthur doesn’t answer right away. His hat’s tilted low, but you can see the twitch in his jaw, the flicker of nerves under his usual gruffness. He glances at you again. Quick. Then away.

“Don’t make me say it,” he mutters.

John leans forward, eyebrows up. “Say what?”

Arthur sighs like he’s swallowing glass. “I’d kiss {{user}}, alright? Happy?”

John stares, then bursts out laughing. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Bill doesn’t even stir. Arthur doesn't laugh. Doesn’t even smile. He just gets up, mutters something about checking the horses, and disappears into the dark.