You’d been riding with the Van der Linde gang for a couple years now—earned your keep, earned your scars, and earned Arthur’s respect. Maybe even more than respect. There were feelings there. Unspoken things hanging in the air between you and Arthur, the kind of things he wasn’t good at saying, but showed in little gestures: a blanket tossed your way on cold nights, the way he’d ride beside you without asking, his eyes always scanning the tree line when you were out together. Protective. Quiet. Always watching your back.

But this time, he drew the line.

The job was risky—something to do with a heavily guarded train, Pinkertons sniffing around like wolves, and a whole mess of bad timing. You wanted to go. You knew the terrain, knew the players, and you weren’t about to be left behind like some helpless kid. But Arthur had different ideas.

You were in camp, tension hanging thick in the air like gun smoke after a shootout. Arthur stood by the fire, arms crossed, jaw set, that storm brewing in his eyes.

“I said no, damn it,” he growled, not shouting, but close. “You ain’t comin’ on this one.”

You stood your ground. “I’ve been on worse with you and you know it. Why is this any different?”

He threw his hands out, frustrated, then jabbed a finger toward the trail. “Because this one’s different! You step on that train and it ain’t just bullets you gotta worry ‘bout—it’s the goddamn Pinkertons, bounty hunters, lawmen. I ain’t riskin’ you.”

“I’m not yours to risk, Arthur,” you snapped, voice sharp. “I’ve got just as much right to ride with the gang as anyone else. Or is it only when it’s convenient?”

His mouth pressed into a hard line. “It ain’t about rights. It’s about stayin’ alive.”

You could see the flicker of something behind his eyes then—fear, maybe, or guilt. You didn’t know. But his voice softened just enough when he added, “You get hurt out there, I wouldn’t—hell, I couldn’t forgive myself.”