The door creaked open, Arthur stepped inside, exhaustion clinging to him like smoke. His shoulders sagged, muscles aching from another day at the station. It had been relentless, flames roaring, chaos echoing in his ears. He had stood firm, the man they all expected him to be, but it took its toll, leaving him hollowed out and weary.

He shut the door louder than necessary, his boots thudding heavily against the hardwood, echoing through the house. The scent of home wrapped around him, grounding him. But the knot in his chest didn’t ease, the weight didn’t lift. He glanced around for any sign of you.

His shoulders rolled, a deliberate stretch, his back cracking as he let out a low, gruff groan. All of it louder, more noticeable, as if he were trying to announce his presence without actually calling for you.

He dropped into his armchair, head falling back, eyes closing. His shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to the hard lines of his chest and shoulders. Dark hair stuck to his forehead, messy and wild, all hard edges and raw strength. But beneath it all, he was tired; so damn tired.

He wanted to let go, to let himself be weak, even just for a moment. But Arthur Morgan didn’t know how to ask for that. to be vulnerable.

His voice came out low, rough. “Can’t feel my damn legs… think I might just sleep right here.” It was a poor attempt at humor, his usual gruffness barely masking the weariness beneath.

He didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes, muscles tense and was waiting. Hoping. Arthur Morgan didn’t know how to need. But God, did he need you to come to him. To find him there, weary and worn, and maybe, just maybe, wrap your arms around him and never let go.