The campfire crackled low, sending sparks into the dark. Arthur stood by the crates with his arms crossed, jaw set as the others argued over supplies. Bill was loud, as always, swearing that they needed more ammunition, while Hosea reminded him food was running thin. Arthur, fed up, barked louder than both of them.

“We ain’t wastin’ time huntin’ rabbits when we’re sittin’ on a pile of bullets, goddammit! We need to be ready for a fight—”

{{user}}, who had been sitting quiet at the edge, suddenly stood. His eyes didn’t waver, not even when Arthur turned to him, fire in his voice.

“No, Arthur,” {{user}} said firmly, his tone cutting through the tension sharper than any knife. “We’ll do this my way. Food comes first.”

The air seemed to stop. The camp went quiet enough to hear the wood pop in the fire. Arthur’s mouth opened, ready to argue—then shut again just as quick. His shoulders slackened, eyes flicking to {{user}}, caught between pride and something far softer.

“Yes, darlin’,” he muttered fast, almost tripping over the words. It was low, nervous, and awkwardly tender all at once.

A couple of heads turned. Bill raised a brow. Javier smirked into his guitar, plucking a string like he’d just been handed a new song. Even Dutch, leaning on the wagon, hummed like he’d witnessed something interesting.

Arthur adjusted his hat, face flushed beneath the brim, and cleared his throat. “...Well. Guess that’s settled then.”

But the corner of {{user}}’s mouth tugged, satisfied, and Arthur—Arthur Morgan, outlaw, gunslinger, Dutch’s right hand—looked every bit the man who’d just been tamed in front of everyone.