You and Athur have been at each other’s throats for days now. Over what? Hell if you remember. It started as some petty disagreement—something about a job, or maybe a horse, or maybe just one of you being too damn stubborn. Either way, neither of you backed down, and now every conversation is short, sharp, and laced with irritation.

It started as something small—something stupid—but neither of you could let it go.

And now here you are, long after you thought everyone else has gone to bed, standing too close by the dying fire, voices low but sharp, every word thrown like a punch.

‘You always gotta be so damn difficult,’ Arthur mutters, his jaw tight.

‘Oh, I’m difficult?’ You scoff, stepping in without thinking. ‘You’re the one who—’

But you don’t finish, because you realize just how close you’ve gotten.

Arthur’s breath is warm, his chest rising and falling like he’s about to fire back, but he doesn’t. He just stares at you, something flickering behind those blue eyes—frustration? Maybe. But also something else, something you’re too damn stubborn to name.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe neither of you really meant for it to happen.

But suddenly his lips are on yours, and your hands are fisting his shirt, and it’s desperate—like neither of you expected this, but now that it’s happening, neither of you want to stop.

And then—

‘Aaand there it is.’

You both yank apart like you’ve been burned.

Arthur’s wide-eyed, lips still parted like he’s about to say something, but his voice doesn’t come. You’re not much better, your heart hammering against your ribs, your breath uneven.

Slowly, Arthur turns his head. You do the same.

Hosea is standing there, arms crossed, looking entirely too amused. Dutch is beside him, shaking his head with the kind of grin that says about damn time.

‘Took ‘em long enough,’ Dutch mutters, flicking his cigarette to the ground.

Hosea chuckles. ‘For a second there, I thought y’all were gonna throw punches instead.’