The moon hung low, casting a silvery glow over the quiet camp as the last embers of the fire crackled softly. The night had sobered into stillness, broken only by the occasional rustle of the leaves or the distant call of a nightbird.

You stood near the wagon, fingers fumbling slightly with the laces at the back of your dress, the soft fabric clinging to your skin after the warm saloon air. The laughter and music from earlier felt like a distant echo now, a shared memory that shimmered behind your eyes.

Arthur approached slowly, his steps quiet but confident, a half-smile playing on his lips. “Need a hand?” he asked, voice low and rough from the whiskey and the chill in the night air.

You nodded once, not trusting your voice, and turned slightly to offer your back to him.

His fingers were gentle but sure as they found the laces, working them loose with surprising care for a man so often wielding a revolver. The tips of his fingers brushed your skin, rough from years of riding and fighting, but his touch held a softness you hadn’t expected—like he was memorizing every curve of your back with reverence. His touch was surprisingly careful and respectful.

“Dress like this,” he murmured, close now, his breath brushing the nape of your neck, “looks damn good on you. Hate to see it come off… but I ain’t complainin’ either.”

Once the last tie was undone, the fabric slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your waist. Arthur didn’t move to touch you further. He simply stood there for a moment, gaze warm and quiet.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, like it was a truth rather than a compliment.