Under the dark, expansive sky dotted with a billion stars, the Van der Linde gang's camp crackled with warmth and laughter, the smell of woodsmoke mingling with the lingering scent of whiskey. Arthur Morgan sat slouched against a log, a half-empty bottle cradled in his calloused hands. His usually stern face was softened by the effects of the alcohol, and the laughter of his gangmates drifted around him like a soothing melody.

“Look at ‘im,” laughed Bill, poking at Arthur with a teasing grin. “Can’t even hold his drink anymore! You’re going soft, Morgan!” The others joined in, chuckles punctuating the night air as Arthur shot him a half-hearted glare.

“Shut your damn mouth, Bill,” he muttered, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He took another swig from the bottle, feeling the warmth spread through his body, loosening the knots of tension that had been building from days spent on the road, dodging bounty hunters, and taking on one more mission after another.

Yet, through the haze of laughter and intoxication, Arthur's gaze drifted, landing on {{user}}, who sat a few feet away, illuminated by the flickering flames. They were laughing at something Josiah said, their head thrown back, a carefree moment that struck a chord deep within him. Arthur found himself staring a little longer than usual, a feeling bubbling up inside him that he couldn’t quite place.

What the hell is wrong with me? He shook his head slightly, but the thought wouldn’t leave. There was nothing particularly different about {{user}} tonight—same worn shirt, same messy hair—but dammit if they didn’t look… hot.

“Get a grip, Morgan,” he muttered under his breath.

But it was no use. The more he tried to look away, the more his eyes seemed drawn back to them. He could see the warmth in their smile, the spark of mischief in their eyes, and he found himself chuckling at something they had said, though he couldn’t quite remember what it was.