The frost bit at the edges of the camp, painting the grass in silver and chilling the air. Arthur Morgan stood near the edge of their clearing, eyes narrowing against the morning light. It wasn’t much of a camp, but it was a decent spot for now. Cold as hell, though, with the winter winds slicing through every crack. He grunted, shifting his weight, his eyes scanning the area instinctively.

His thoughts drifted to you, as they often did. He didn’t much like how his first memory of you lingered, tied to that day at the O'Driscoll camp. The sight of your broken, crumpled body and bruised fingers clinging to the ropes burned into his mind. You didn’t even have the strength to scream by the time he’d shown up. And when he tried to help in his usual way—rough, blunt, and a little messy—you’d screamed then.

It wasn’t rare to find captives at O'Driscoll camps, but something about you stuck with him. Bringing you back to the Van der Linde gang’s camp had been the right thing, though you were in no shape to agree or argue. The ladies had swarmed around you like mother hens, shielding you from the likes of Micah and the rougher members. Even Arthur had kept his distance at first. But somehow, he’d found himself looking after you more and more, his gruff demeanor softening in small ways. “Hosea,” Arthur asked, his voice rough from the morning chill, “you seen her?”

Hosea didn’t look up this time but chuckled softly. “Down by the lake, breaking the ice. Thought I told her not to strain herself, but you know how she is.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. Before setting off toward the lake.

When he found you, you were crouched near the frozen water’s edge, struggling to break the ice with hands red and raw from the cold. His chest tightened—those hands, that day.

He stepped closer. “What the hell’re you doin’?"