For once, the gang wasn’t on the run. No Pinkertons. No heists. Just a quiet pocket of time tucked into the evening, with the scent of wildflowers in the breeze and laughter echoing through the trees.

Arthur knew you loved music — always humming, always drifting toward whatever sounds filled the air. So when he heard about a traveling music festival setting up near Rhodes — banjos, fiddles, even a few vocal acts — he figured, why not?

"Figured you might like this," he mumbled earlier that day, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing away like he hadn’t been planning it for over a week. “Ain’t often we get to hear more than birds or bullets.”

Now the two of you are sitting on a worn blanket just beyond the firelight, the crackle of campfires mingling with the low thrum of distant music. Lanterns hang from tree branches, casting warm amber halos over the crowd. Arthur’s hat is tilted back slightly, his arms resting behind him, legs stretched out, a rare calm in his weathered face.

As fiddles start a wild, spinning tune, people rise to dance — some graceful, some stumbling in rhythm. Arthur leans in, voice gruff but amused. “Bet you could outdance the lot of ‘em.”

You roll your eyes, but he grins, nudging your shoulder.

"Y’know, if I gotta be sittin’ in the dirt watchin’ fiddlers stomp around, glad it's with you. You're easy company, even when you talk too damn much about songs I ain't never heard."

Then, almost shyly, he offers a hand. “Wanna dance? Or laugh at everyone who’s already makin’ fools of themselves?”