Arthur trudged ahead through the biting wind and thick snow, his eyes scanning the horizon. The storm howled like a living thing, but his thoughts were fixed on one anchor: getting back to {{user}}, wrapping them in his arms, and finally finding some damn warmth by a fire. Maybe, if the universe allowed, with a roof overhead for a change. His shoulders ached, his breath frosted in the bitter air, but that thought—the idea of {{user}}’s touch, a bottle of whiskey in hand, and the crackle of a fire—kept him going.

So, when he stumbled upon that old mining town, Colter, it felt like salvation. Arthur turned his horse around and rode back to the gang, guiding them through the blizzard to the safety of Colter’s rundown cabins. Still, it wasn’t enough. Davey didn’t make it. The sting of it pressed heavy on Arthur’s chest, though there was no time to grieve properly. Not with Dutch barking orders before Arthur could even sit.

It didn’t take long, but it felt long enough. By the time Arthur returned with Dutch, Micah, and the woman they’d rescued—Mrs. Adler—there was still no sign of John. Ms. Grimshaw stopped him on the way in, letting him know she had set aside a room for him. Arthur muttered his thanks, exhaustion tugging at every step as he made his way inside. It wasn’t much of a room—barely more than four walls and a bed—but it was better than nothing. “There you are,” he drawled, and the weight of the last few days seemed to melt from his shoulders. “Knew you’d be here waitin’.”

He sank onto the bed with a heavy sigh, the old frame creaking under his weight, and reached for {{user}}, pulling them onto his lap. His arms wrapped around them, unyielding. “Come here, darlin’,” he murmured, resting his chin against their shoulder. “I’m freezin’.”