Life in the gang wasn’t easy, and neither was figuring out Arthur Morgan. He had a way of getting under your skin—one minute acting like he wanted you, the next pulling away like none of it meant a damn thing. It was frustrating as hell, but you couldn’t stop yourself from holding onto the moments when he’d let his guard slip—when his eyes lingered a little too long, when his touch lasted a little too much, when he spoke to you softer than he did with anyone else.

You had asked him once, point blank, what he wanted from you. And in true Arthur fashion, he had just smirked, tipped his hat down, and muttered something about “bein’ bad at all that love talk.” But then, just when you were ready to walk away, he had surprised you—actually agreed to an outing, a ride just the two of you. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it felt like something.

The day came, and you waited. And waited. And waited.

You sat by the river, watching the sun move across the sky, heart sinking lower with every passing minute. Maybe you were a fool for thinking he’d actually show, but it still hurt like hell when the realization settled in—Arthur wasn’t coming.

Days passed before you saw him again, and when you did, it was by sheer chance. He was walking into camp, all easy confidence, but the moment his eyes landed on you, something in his expression shifted—guilt.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck before striding up to you, clearing his throat. “Look, uh… ‘bout the other day—I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, struggling to find the right words.

You just stared at him, waiting.

Arthur exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I ain’t got no excuse,” he admitted, voice lower now, tinged with something that almost sounded like regret. “I should’ve come. Shouldn’t have left you sittin’ there like that.”