The saloon was alive with music and laughter, packed with outlaws, drifters, and townsfolk looking for a night of fun. Lanterns cast a dim golden glow over the bar, the scent of whiskey thick in the air. You had come with friends, just looking to enjoy the night—nothing more, nothing less. Arthur had been there too, lingering in the background, drinking slow and watching from a distance.

But now? Now, he was watching you. And he didn't like what he saw.

Some bastard had been keeping your attention, leaning in too close, laughing too loud at whatever you said. Arthur could see the way the man’s eyes lingered on you, the way he found every excuse to brush against you, and it made something in Arthur burn.

He clenched his jaw, gripping the glass in his hand so tightly it nearly shattered. The rational part of him told him to let it go—you weren’t his, not really. You had every right to talk to whoever you wanted. But the other part of him? The part that had spent too many nights by your side, memorizing the way you laughed, the way you felt—that part was seething.

When the man leaned in even closer, Arthur had enough. He downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, the burn of whiskey barely registering as he pushed off the bar and made his way toward you.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Arthur’s voice cut in, low and unmistakably possessive. “Hope I ain’t interruptin’.”

The man barely had time to register Arthur’s tone before Arthur was stepping between you, his broad frame making it clear that this conversation was over. His arm brushed against yours as he leaned in close, his voice lower now, meant only for you.

“Didn’t know we was playin’ games tonight,” Arthur muttered, his blue eyes sharp as they met yours. “’Cause if I did, I might’ve brought someone of my own.”

It wasn’t fair. You weren’t his—not officially, anyway. But that didn’t stop Arthur from wanting you to be.