Colter was a cold place. Which, to be fair, made sense, considering where the old, abandoned mining town was situated in the Grizzlies. And while that vicious snowstorm had died down, Arthur could still feel himself shiver, even under the thick fur of his blue coat.

“Look at all that.”

And {{user}} wasn’t making the outlaw’s blood run any warmer, either.

His lover had been outside of camp, alongside Javier, making sure no Pinkertons or O’Driscolls were lurking, making sure the gang was safe for yet another day—but they seemed to forget that the cold could get them too.

Or, perhaps, they didn’t care for it as much as he did. The fact that they came back to the camp with snow piling on their shoulders, stuck to the fabric of their coat, was enough to have Arthur frowning after they dismounted their horse.

“I don’t think we need another sick fool,” the outlaw grumbled, his hands swiping over {{user}}’s shoulders, dusting the white flakes off their form, “Marston’s enough.”