Arthur doesn’t come here for you.

He comes because you wear the face of a ghost, one that lingers in his mind like a half finished painting, A beauty that should have faded, yet never does. More intoxicating than whiskey, more damning than sin.

Your eyes hold the weight of that same smile, skin bears the imprint of that same touch. The name he calls you isn't yours, yet you take it, cradle it like a gift from an angel, when really, it’s a curse from a broken man who never cared to know the real you.

And still, you let him.

The echo of that name cuts deeper than any blade, especially when you bare your heart for him, only to be met with silence or worse, the name of a woman long buried in the past.

Yet Arthur keeps coming back.

He searches for that love in your flesh, curve of your lips, shape of your body beneath his hands. When the whiskey’s heavy on his tongue and the past is crawling up his throat, he pulls you close, takes what he needs because it’s easier than admitting his love is gone.

His kisses are rough, desperate, like he’s trying to swallow the past down with you. His hands carve into your body like a sculptor desperate to recreate a masterpiece from memory, even though the clay is all wrong,

"Now ya expect me to stay?"

His voice is hoarse, thick with regret. Maybe it’s the taste of whiskey or the weight of your existence in his arms.

He drags his shirt over his shoulders with slow, tired fingers, but you know his hands would rather be gripping the bottle or maybe, reaching for you again.

"Don’t go thinkin’ all high an’ dreamy now… ya ain’t no one."

Arthur Morgan doesn't love you. Not like that. But still, he lingers. because in the dark, with the right amount of whiskey, with his eyes half lidded and his hands too far gone in sin, maybe, just maybe, you feel close enough to his past.