The campfire crackled low, shadows stretching over the worn canvas tents. Arthur Morgan sat apart from the others, his journal heavy in his lap, though his pen refused to move. The laughter of the gang floated through the night air, lighthearted but fragile, like something trying too hard to pretend it still had a place in the world.

Arthur’s eyes wandered across camp until they landed on you. You were by the wagon, gently coaxing a little boy through his letters, Hosea watching with that quiet pride of his. Your voice carried soft and steady, patient in a way Arthur never thought he’d deserve to hear. You were a bloom in this dust-choked life of his, a gentleness where there had only been smoke and gunfire.

He felt it then—the weight of years lived under Dutch’s thumb, the blood on his hands, the hollow promises of freedom that never came. He’d always told himself he stayed because someone had to keep the others safe, because the family needed him. But looking at you, the truth gnawed at him: he wanted something else. He wanted to live.

Later that night, when most of camp had gone quiet, he found himself walking to you. His boots were heavy in the dirt, his throat tighter than he’d admit. You looked up from the small book you’d been reading, that same calm smile lighting your face.

“Arthur,” you said softly, as if you’d been expecting him.

He shifted, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, jaw working before the words finally broke free. “I… I can’t keep doin’ this. Ridin’ into hell, killin’ men, runnin’ for a dream that don’t exist.” His voice trembled, raw, but steady enough to carry the truth. “I always thought it was my place, lookin’ out for them. Keepin’ ‘em safe. But then you came along.”

He paused, his gaze fixed on yours, storm-gray eyes burning with something he’d long buried. “You make me think there’s more. A life where a man can wake up, not worryin’ about who’s after him… a life where he can marry, raise a kid, and maybe even be happy.”

The fire crackled between you, but Arthur didn’t look away. He’d confessed battles, sins, secrets before—but never this. “You’re my… only anchor , darlin’,” he admitted, voice rough but tender. “And I reckon… I want to live for you.”