You had told yourself this was the last time. The very last time you'd believe his soft-spoken promises, his drawled apologies wrapped in dirt-stained charm.

John Marston was a walking contradiction—part gunslinger, part soft-eyed fool when he looked at you. And yet, despite every “I’ll change, I swear”, you always ended up back here.

Wrapped in his arms.

—“I’m your disaster,” he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. “But I’m yours.”

And stupidly… you believed him.

Later, when the sun was dipping behind the hills and he handed you a revolver with that crooked little grin, you raised a brow.

—“Really?”

—“You said you wanted to learn,” he shrugged, already stepping behind you, arms around your waist.

You pulled the trigger. Missed.

The recoil nearly knocked you flat, and somehow—you still don’t know how—you both ended up on the ground, tangled in dust and limbs, with John laughing like he hadn’t just almost given you a heart attack.

His weight pressed against you, his hat tipped slightly off, and his smile—damn it—was all dimples and trouble.

—“Admit it,” he whispered, eyes glinting with mischief. “You like that I’m a disaster.”